Judy Greer

Monica imagines she herself will be able to say the same by 35.

"'My son won't be gracing us with his presence?'

Elizabeth asks.

A cigarette is burning in a crystal ashtray, and she lifts it to her lips, inhales once, and stubs it out."

He wanted to get some reading done.

Monica settles on the sofa, Jay's lounge, next to her and crosses her legs so that one pretty shoe is visible.

Elizabeth lays a warm hand on the ankle.

Lovely, she says.

Really, they suit you.

"'You shouldn't be shy about wearing beautiful things, my dear,' she says.

She fishes in her purse and draws out a tiny vial of perfume, presses it into Monica's hand.

"'And this, I think, will suit you as well, a sample from a little perfumery I found today.

If you like it, we'll go back and buy some tomorrow.'

She finishes the drink in front of her and the waiter appears immediately.

Her hair is loose tonight, spun silver amethyst drops sparkle at her neck.'

Why would a man want to read when he could be sipping champagne with his wife?

I'm leaving him, Monica says.

And once she speaks, she is amazed, ashamed by how delicious the words taste to her, exotic and heady like the truffle shavings on her galette at dinner last night.

I'm leaving him.

As soon as I can, he doesn't know yet, she says.