It was one in the afternoon. Back to the mall andthe food court. Time was moving on, Karen was usually back by five-thirty on her Saturday. I ordered pizza, and was about to put the slicein my face but stopped. I didn't want my makeup destroyed with sauceall over my mouth. If I rubbed the sauce off, my makeup wouldn'tsurvive. So I got a knife and fork and cut it up into very small bites.I didn't even get half way though it when I didn't feel full, I feltbloated. Perhaps a salad would have been better. I had always thoughtKaren was being prissy when she did this. I just didn't have a clue.This was indeed an educational day. There was no time to waste; I needed a gown for the opera. It was adress up event. I had a tuxedo at home. So my body didn't need any moreclothing. Karen may not have been a clotheshorse, but I was. I was theonly person I knew that owned his own tux. Today, Karen's wardrobe wasbeing upgraded. Back in the department store, there were a lot ofgowns, but nothing that. She sighed and re-checked her rear view – but grinned a slightly evil grin at her reflection.She’d made the cross-town trek to Alice Miller’s 19th century manor (at least, that’s what Susan called it to tease her). It sat, manor-like, on a small hill above the street, but Susan knew that Alice had a) a big garage in back and b) a luxury car in that garage – one of the few perks she allowed herself after selling the studio.Susan parked the Prius on the street, drug the overnight bag out of the trunk and slung it over her shoulder without batting an eye at the steep flight of stairs leading up to the front door.Her glasses sat, discarded and forgotten, on her dash.Alice was well past the age of pacing nervously, but her distress was apparent by the wringing of her hands.She was stressed to the point that she actually jumped when her antique doorbell rang in its joyless manner. Stubbing out a cigarette, Alice stopped and checked herself in the mirror before she opened the door; her.
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