Two champagne glasses

Each of Marilyn’s breasts fit perfectly inside a very expensive champagne glass. Her nipples filled the bulge above the stem and the rest of her white skin nestled against the glass with none spilling over. Their perfection was generally accepted in the southwest corner, but her fame often landed her in uncomfortable situations, such as her present one. She sat in front of strangers at the request of a lover she had outgrown, with her blouse in her lap and her tits in the breeze. She glanced at Andrew and then out the front window. In Richmond there must be a few hundred blueberry farms, and the house sat on a farm in the middle of this plain of blueberries and yawning ditches, hidden from a lonesome stretch of blacktop by a tall hedge. It was, she knew, a long walk to an empty crossroads.

Marilyn looked ruefully down at her breasts and then around the room. There were two couples, the men in sports jackets. Marilyn guessed they were teachers or insurance salesmen in their day jobs, and their girlfriends looked square too, in their polyester bell bottoms. Marilyn hated the way they eagerly leaned forward, waiting for the lines of coke Andrew had drawn on the mirror in his lap. Even Andrew’s orange cat had more dignity. She looked away as the squares tittered and waddled like puppies up to the coke. Why do they do that to themselves, she wondered. Are they walking through their lives asleep and need waking up?

She lifted her head. A car was pulling in. She listened as it went around to the back of the house, and then looked at Andrew and the squares, all their attention focused on the coke. She pulled her blouse over her head, smoothed it down, and then slipped out to the kitchen. She opened the door a crack.

The car was wine coloured and weathered, as long as a boat with a wide hood, an ugly beast compared to Andrew's Citroën. As she watched the guy step out, her heart jumped. He had long hair, and wore one of the suede bomber jackets that a lot of the guys wore back on the north shore. And he looked young, not one of the disappointed druggies that Andrew hung out with. She slipped out of the house and past the apple trees on the lawn. He was peering inside a Citroën as she came up to him.

“It’s French,” she said.

He spun around. His face was thin, handsome. She saw the wheels turning behind his brown eyes, and then something strange happened. His face changed before her eyes, as if parts of it loosened from the others and rearranged themselves. She blinked and it was over, and his face looked the same as before.

“I didn’t know the French made cars,” he said.

She studied his face. “No?”

He grinned, good–naturedly. “It makes my Chrysler look like a tank.”

“At least you have a car,” she said.

“Yeah.”

He didn’t look sure of himself. “You’re from North Van,” she said.

“How’d you know?” he asked.

She tugged his jacket sleeve. “I’ve seen you guys wearing these.”

He looked down at her hand and then at her. The air flowed out of him like leaving a balloon. He sucked in a breath. “You’re from the north shore?”

“The Cove.”

“I’ve never seen you or I’d have remembered, for sure,” he said.

She grinned, knowingly. “Oh yeah.”

“No, I mean… yeah,” he said.

She glanced at the house. “You come to see Andrew?”

“Uh huh.”

She touched his arm. “You go around the front. I’ll see you inside.”