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last one up.”
    “No,” Kerry said, “she didn’t.”
    “How the hell can a man have himself
un
circumsised?”
    “It’s called foreskin reconstruction. Very trendy among the younger set, I understand.”
    “Bull.”
    “Tamara?”
    “Fact,” she said. “Lot of dudes think it’s cool. Some even having their new foreskin tattooed.”
    What can you say to that? True or false, it absolutely defies comment.
    I just sat there, silent, looking back and forth from one to the other as they cheerfully chattered on about chemical peels and laser resurfacing and hyperpigmentation removal and buttock augmentation and hyperbaric oxygen therapy, and how twenty-five percent of all cosmetic surgeries were mother-daughter tandems, and how nose jobs and chin lifts were the hot new gifts for wealthy parents to give to their kids on high school and college graduation, and which Hollywood celebs were being sucked, tucked, lifted, reconstructed, and resurfaced by which Hollywood celeb surgeon—all the while eating minestrone and salad and garlic bread and drinking wine with plenty of appetite, the kind I’d had when I sat down in the booth with them and might never have again.
    A lone with Kerry on the way home, I said, “All that cosmetic surgery nonsense. The two of you were putting me on, right? At least about some of the more personal procedures?”
    “Why would you think that?”
    “I can’t believe people would have things like that done to themselves.”
    “You can say that after, what, forty years as a detective? People are capable of doing
anything
to themselves. And others.”
    I couldn’t argue with that. “So those procedures really do exist? All of them?”
    “Every one.”
    “How come you and Tamara know so much about it?”
    “Word of mouth, for one thing.”
    “Women’s mouths.”
    “Don’t be sexist,” she said. “We also read newspapers and surf the Net, two things you don’t do. You’d be amazed at what you can find out if you take a ride on the information highway.”
    “Information highway,” I said. “Surf the Net.”
    “Stuck in the past. Living with blinders on.”
    “Okay, okay. But I still don’t get it.”
    “Get what?”
    “The whole cosmetic surgery bit. Women want to look younger, sure, I understand that. Vanity. But the rest of it … unnatural, demeaning, seems to me. Ways for some fat-cat surgeon to get rich.”
    “It’s not vanity. Not completely, anyway.”
    “Then what is it?”
    “A kind of celebration of life in general and our bodies in particular. Life is short and the body wears out fast—and the medical community is making huge advances in all areas, including cosmetic surgery. Why not preserve and resurface, if you can afford to, the parts only you or an intimate partner see as well as the parts everyone else sees?”
    “Don’t tell me you’re thinking about having yourself resurfaced?”
    “As a matter of fact, I am.”
    Oh, God. “What kind of procedure? Not a face-lift…”
    “Why not a face-lift?”
    “I like your face just fine the way it is.”
    “Well, I don’t. Maybe not a full lift, maybe just my eyes and Botox or collagen injections around my mouth and chin. Get rid of the hen’s feet and some of the wrinkles.”
    “What if something went wrong? You could end up scarred or disfigured …”
    “Oh, come on. Cosmetic surgery is completely safe.”
    “You said yourself it’s no picnic.”
    “Neither were the radiation treatments. If I could get through them, I can get through anything.”
    “I still don’t like the idea of it.”
    “You’re not going to give me any trouble if I decide to go ahead, are you?”
    “… No. Your body, your decision.”
    “Now that’s the most enlightened thing you’ve said all evening. If you really mean it, and if I do go ahead, I might include a little present in the package.”
    “Present? What present?”
    “Reattachment of a certain membrane, just for you.”

JAKE RUNYON
     
    Tamara had