Happy Thanksgiving. He recognised this object at once. The atmosphere at dinner was not propitious. Her eyes were soft and grave, and there was the faintest of smiles upon her resolute lips. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. He confided to me that he felt trapped in his marriage, that he was being ruined by fate. She tiptoed into the entryway where some decorator had placed a live orchid upon a glassy ebony table. “Martin, you realize that I’m dating someone, don’t you?” She knew his reply before he uttered it. She felt it would save explanations if she did not state she had left her home and was looking for employment. .
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