What was the name of that virus? The one that had hundreds of sunburned, drunken honeymooners retching all over the decks afraid to touch each other not to mention everything else from doorknobs to forks. All of these germs and viruses were getting nastier and nastier. Just like the world they’re mutating in, Charlotte thought, taking a last sip from her cappuccino. Pulling on her old shearling jacket and pocketing the piece of paper with Amy’s cell phone number, Charlotte fumbled around in the hall closet. She was looking for her new Nikes. How long had it been since the last time, she wondered. Too long, was the answer. It was all the schizophrenic struggling. The protecting, the serving, the listening. It was clients like Darryl and Rita, beeping, buzzing around in her head, bitching. And her mother calling. It was her credit card bills and waiting for news from the doctor. How much longer could she postpone the pleasure, the ecstasy that came with release? What if the woman with the Vuitton changed her mind?
