Bob glared at me and took several deep breaths, overtures to a gloriously orchestrated aria of snide remarks. But he couldn’t find anything to say. I looked away from him and concentrated on the prismatic effect of early afternoon light passing through a crystal ashtray on the coffee table. “The doorbell,” he hissed. “Aren’t you going to get it?” “Do I look like a butler?” He shrugged his shoulders, appropriating my favorite gesture of studied casualness, and began sauntering toward the door. “It’s all right, Judith, I’ll get it. Just do me one favor,” he said as he turned the corner to the entrance hall. “Please put your shoes on. You’re not a teen-ager.” I glanced down at my shoes, two scuffed loafers, Gucci derivatives, with stretched-out tongues sticking out at me, and kicked them under the couch. I listened to the door open and to the muffled voices. Mumble, mumble, Bob Singer. Mumble, mumble, Lieutenant Mumble. She’s inside. Fine, mumble, mumble. They came into the room.
What do You think about Compromising Positions (2011)?
