the fortune cookie prophesied. Jana stared at Marilyn sitting across from her. Marilyn’s Indian cotton blouse was cut low—you could see the top of her large breasts over the neck and the outline of her bra beneath the thin fabric. And here I am, prim in my Ship and Shore shirt, as if I’m trying to repress those strong emotions, Jana thought. She ought to take lessons from her outgoing if somewhat disheveled friend. Marilyn looked comfortable and relaxed, no matter what she was wearing; that was one of the things which had attracted Jana to her in the beginning. Reading the fortune aloud, Jana savored the sweet, broken pieces. “See that,” she said. “The baker had foresight to know I’m seeing Ed tomorrow night.” “I thought you came to town because of the DCA commission,” Marilyn chided her. The Department of Cultural Affairs was sponsoring an open competition for art in the subways, and Jana was one of the five finalists for the Lex and 86th Street station. If she got the commission, she’d work with a foundry, producing metal cutout figures, sculptures with a painting’s one-dimensional surface.
