prologue
chapter one
On this particular Sunday, the last Sunday in August, at the sweltering end of a summer of endless rain, the sky was shamelessly cloudless. There was nothing to stop the scorching sun from cooking the city asphalt into a stinky, sticky mess, and the life-giving, earnest luminary did its ruthless job well. As if smuggled in, one lonesome wisp began to gather itself into a cloud-like formation in the middle of the weightless dome, wasn’t encouraged, and dissolved at once. For us mere mortals who happened to be in the habit of inhabiting a pale blue spot of a planet (its Northern Hemisphere) suspended in the golden rays of a smallish yellow sun, adrift on the outskirts of an ordinary galaxy, the eighth month was the muggiest one of all.
...more
chapter two
The Russian Easter masquerade party in a Fifth Avenue loft in trendy downtown Manhattan was an event to await with anticipation. What I didn’t look forward to was my boyfriend’s costume, and for that matter, my costume too. No matter the occasion, or the season of the year, or the phase of the moon, Alex insisted on dressing up as a gestapo officer in full regalia. One had better make a lot, and I mean a lot of hoopla, heaping praise after praise on him—how masculine he looked in it and how original and sophisticated the whole affair was when I hated, hated, hated the whole thing.
chapter three
I must lose my virginity. Tonight.” Hannah’s radiant blue eyes looked serious and a bit worried. She held up her hand. “Mama, before you say anything—”
The universe tilted a little, and the soapy sponge—bool’k!—tumbled from my hands into the greasy skillet full of hot, scummy water soaking in the sink. This isn’t good, I thought.
“I know what you’ll say. ‘Why rush things? Wait for the right man, fall in love, then have sex.’”
“That’s right,” I said. “Sex isn’t a purely mechanical problem of how to fit thing A into thing B—”
“Oh God, no. God. Don’t even start, Mama. This negativity of yours is driving me nuts.”
“Negativity?”
“You’re so old-fashioned.”
Adam & Eve
Cat-o-therapy, for reasons that escape my understanding, was no widely adapted term. Warning: Not recommended for persons allergic to cats. Sorry! I will not advocate it for people infected with ailurophobia (the fear of cats) either. On many occasions it worked better than the trendy pharmaceutical treatments utilized in psychotherapy. Amazing how much more preferable Adam was to Zoloft. Were two cats sufficient to exorcise Mother and the other plump relative out of my system, or did I need to adopt seven more in a hurry? A hundred and fifteen to cover the problem, you say? Hmm...Zoloft, then?