Seven Women: An Erotic Private Investigation

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The best thing to do — get up and leave, go home or to another bar. I thought this would be an uncomplicated day — come in and have a few drinks, go home and maybe watch some television. Now she enters the narrative, much in the same way she originally came in: without preamble.

I haven’t seen my ex-wife in five months. She wears a gray blazer, white blouse, dark skirt. She’s just off work, I assume; she’s an associate editor at a mass-market paperback publisher. Her friends don’t look as if they’re in publishing; they don’t have that fatigued demeanor many of her colleagues have. I wonder who they are.

I get another drink. I hear them laughing and talking, and I feel small. I can see her face in the mirror now: long black hair, fair skin. I remember things. I hate it when you drink and remember. Drinking alone isn’t a good thing sometimes. These women have the right idea: come in as a group. You get less melancholy. I don’t have any drinking buddies.

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