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Karen left Ice Blink Press at 6:30 P.M. and emerged into a manic Manhattan evening, the sliver of sky between the buildings smoldering with dying sunlight, gilding glass and steel. It was the fourth Friday of October, the terminal brilliance of autumn fullblown upon the city, and as she walked the fifteen blocks to her apartment in SoHo, Karen decided that she wouldn't start the manuscript in her leather satchel tonight.
Instead she'd slip into satin pajamas, have a glass of that organic chardonnay she'd purchased at Whole Foods Market, and watch wonderful mindless television.
It had been a bad week.
Pampering was in order.
At 7:55 she walked out of her bedroom in black satin pajamas that rubbed coolly against her skin. Her chaotic blond hair was twisted into a bun and held up by chopsticks from the Chinese food she'd ordered. Two unopened food cartons and a bottle of wine sat on the glass coffee table between the couch and the flat-screen television. Her apartment smelled of spicysweet sesame beef.
She plopped down and uncorked the wine.
Ashley Chambliss's CD Nakedsongs had ended and in the perfect stillness of her apartment Karen conceded how alone she was.
Thirty-seven.
Single again.
Childless.
But I'm not lonely, she thought, turning on the television and pouring a healthy glass of chardonnay.
I'm just alone.
There is a difference.
