It was a repeat performance of a ten-year ritual that neither of them seemed to tire of. Judy had a rounded voluptuous body, soft without being fat. She always sat before the mirror putting on her face without a bra because she knew Clint liked to look at her. When she finally did slip into the bra, it was the signal for him to begin shaving and showering as the timing would work out for both of them to be dressed at the same time. Clint reached to the nightstand, grasped the martini pitcher, swirled it, drained out another half glass. “Who are we?” he intoned abstractedly. “Sweet people on the high road to becoming sweet rich people.” “We are perverters of the American dream. We prostitute for the worthless products of a flabby society.” “That nasty old man must have upset you, lover. You haven’t been yourself all week.” “That nasty old man is Hiram Stonebraker, humanitarian.
