“The starlings,” Eli said. “They’re flocking.” Gladys looked up, angling a pale, bejeweled wrist to shield her eyes. She wore costly jewelry, rings and bracelets and necklaces that clattered musically when she moved. It was her one demand of her husband, to provide her with the very best. His own taste being fastidious, he was proud to accommodate her. They cultivated an appearance of greatness. When they went out to dinner together at the club or met for lunch at the plaza, people admired them. The good doctor. The good doctor’s wife. For the most part, Gladys was satisfied with their life. Eli’s chosen field, podiatry, was very successful. She would have preferred that he become a cardiologist or neurologist or surgeon, but Eli had always been fascinated by feet and by footprints, and so she had allowed him to choose his specialty with only mild complaint. And good thing! His practice was booming. Their banker fell over himself when Gladys entered his branch, rushing forward to take up her hand.
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