It had become painfully apparent over their short marriage that he was not worth the salt she sweated. Lotto and Mathilde had spread out thrift-store sheets on the grass and their friends had arranged the potluck in the middle, and everyone was lounging quietly, eyes closed in the last morsel of chill fall sun, drinking cold white wine and Belgian beer, waiting for the first person to reach in and take food. She said, as she followed Mathilde out the entryway, up the back stairs, “You know Kristina, from our class? In that a cappella group the Zaftones? Inky hair and, well, zaftig? I think Lotto and she-” Susannah made a face to herself, Oh, you dummy, and Mathilde paused on the step, then waved a hand as if to say, Oh, yes, Lotto and everybody screwed like bonobos, which Susannah had to admit was true, and they came up into the garden. “Right,” Susannah said, and picked up the two bottles of wine Mathilde indicated with her chin. Mathilde put a hand up to it and said, “Thanks. All this time, Mathilde had seemed plain, shadowed by her husband’s light, but now the pairing clicked. She’d gotten an asymmetrical haircut, her blond hair lopped at the right jawbone and at the left collar, and it set off her high cheekbones. But now the color played with the cinnamon freckles on Mathilde’s face.

Earlier, Susannah had thought that walking into the apartment with its new coat of bright yellow paint had been like walking into the sun, blinding. “Did you hear? We’re sick about it,” Susannah said, but was struck silent when Mathilde turned her face toward her. She found Mathilde alone, tossing Bibb lettuce in vinaigrette in the galley kitchen.

Grapefruit spoon near me