“Shit,” said Sandra. She fingered her mother’s pearl earrings into her ears and stabbed a stocking-shadowed foot into a pump. One more look in the mirror. “Okay. I will talk to you later,” she said.

“Say hello to Ivy for me,” said her husband, and she was half way down the block when she realized she did not kiss him good bye.

She waited for the subway car to arrive. She waited for the doors to open. She waited for the people to flood out. She waited for the crowd of people to nudge up the stairs. She waited for the light to change on seventh avenue, and then on Broadway. She waited for the eyes of twelve million people to stop and watch her cross the street.

When she arrived at the restaurant she was ten minutes late, and a blister had welled up on her left foot. She ordered a cocktail and the bartender poured her a blue drink in a martini glass. She bit off the head off the Swedish fish garnish. She remembered what he had said about playing footsy in restaurants. Nothing got him hotter. It sounded funny coming from a grown man that owned and piloted his own helicopter. She unbuckled her right shoe, clamped the thin leather strap between her toes.

“I’m sorry, my cab driver was a nut. Honestly,” he said.

“It’s not your fault,” she said. “If you were on time you would have waited for me.”

He laughed at this, and she laughed with him. With her bare big toe, she felt the rim of his sock around his hairy leg. “I could watch you smile at me all day,” she said.

“I could let you,” he said, and then he flagged the waitress down and ordered a drink.