Monday, May 14, 2012


The first thing she wanted was to see my hands, which were still beautiful then, but she didn't encourage me to play her Steinway, which had just been tuned for a better pianist to play at a party she was having after I was gone. She put me in the maids' rooms, which had been luxely fixed up as a guest suite, two tiny rooms and a tinier bath off the kitchen, on the airshaft. She made me take her to a $100 dinner at a restaurant in the neighborhood, reliable but not especially good. She told me about her collection of vintage Bordeaux but didn't offer me a taste. Her kitchen had been remodeled with every convenience but nothing was cooked. She ordered in pizza, opened a bottle of something drinkable, and made me watch the finale of "Survivor."