They never died, and they all reproduced boring replicas that prospered even in the arid atmosphere of our marriage. It occurred to me, staring at those plants, that the most innocuous memories of life with Allan bugged me. I should phone him to discuss Sam. The prospect was demoralizing.
On her way to the table, Jane greeted every single person, or so it seemed. She either had sold each one a house or was planning to someday in the future. She blew kisses to those too far away to address personally, and from Jane this gesture was not an affectation but true affection. We were a perfect pair, she the most popular transplant and I the least.
She leaned down to kiss my cheek, slid into the booth, and took charge. She signaled the waitress, and we ordered. “But first please bring me a frozen margarita. Have one, Lily. Two,” she told the waitress, and relieved me of the menu.
Settling in, she smoothed the front of her pink silk blouse and retucked it at the waist. Jane always spruced up before talking and usually offered a self-criticism. “I’m too old for pastels,” she said tonight. With suppressed excitement, she added, “So tell me what happened.”
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