I’ve brushed my teeth and washed my face and now I’m lying in bed with the covers pulled up and my Winnie the Pooh book open to page one. Any minute the steps will squeak and that means Mom is coming up to read to me and tuck me in. Finally the steps squeak, but they squeak a lot louder than usual.
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For a long time I’ve wanted to tell the story of a girl I slept with almost accidently one night in New York sometime in the early 1980s.
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I was still feeling ridiculous sporting this white-on-white, three-piece suit. It was a funeral, after all, and no one would have guessed it from the attire of the guests in attendance.
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Sarah turned to Liz and said, “I think I’m going with an athletic build.”
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“Red. She said red. I don’t know why.” Libby muttered, caught her reflection in a long mirror, and without words, talked to herself. “She never ever asked for a specific gift. Never. Why now?
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“Let me out, let me out,” cried little Priscilla, scratching the frosty windowpane with her tiny nails. “Why can’t I spook like my friends and go trick-or-treating, Aunty?”
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