She looks awful.

Bloated, actually.

Do you think she saw us when she came in?

I don't think so.

Should we go to her table and say hello?

Better not. We could be trapped talking to her — forever. She can be painfully boring.


She really does look awful.

Puffy. All in here. Look at the bags under her eyes.

An ice cube cracks in a crystal glass, its sharpness muted by the seltzer's effervescence.

Mmm. You know, your skin looks wonderful. Absolutely glowing.

Thank you. And, I meant to ask — have you lost weight?

A little. Here and there. You know.

Look, there's our server. We should get our bill.

Yes. I'm stuffed.

Service is summoned, crisp linen at attention.

Ladies — how was everything?

We'd like the bill.

Were your salads not to your liking?

They were fine; we're just finished.

I can wrap them for you if you like.

Just the bill.

Well, it's my pleasure to tell you that Dr. Morriss' wife over there has taken care of it. With her best regards.

Oh. How nice.

Yes. Nice.

Tell her we said thank you.

Certainly, and enjoy the rest of your afternoon

Platinum cards retract into Italian boarskin slots, their glint extinguished.

Should we go thank her?

No. Just smile her way and wave.

Yes. You're right. I really don't want to hear any more baby plans anyway. I understand from my last appointment with Dr. Morriss that she's due any day.

I was there two days ago. He said she was late.

Ugh. As if we don't have better things to talk about.



Reciprocal standing ovations transpire, the applause silent.


How about Neiman's?