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knew that what a person owned would belong to her. Sitting on a train she would feel the money, a roll wrapped around her hip, as she listened to the click of the wheels along the tracks. She wanted to be the imposters she claimed to be: the lost cousin, the secret aunt, the high school classmate, the one who had loved from afar. Glancing at herself in the dark train windows, she sometimes thought she had become this other person; her heart lightened for a while as she imagined what this person might feel.
    T HERE WAS A KNOCK ON HER DOOR AT 10:00 AM . I T WAS THE GIRL from lunch. “Remember me?” she said. “I’m your seatmate. I wanted to go to the chocolate buffet.” She clutched her own hands fiercely. “Who wants to gorge on chocolate alone?”
    It was the tyranny of the normal, the attempts of regular people to energize their lives. It was ten in the morning, and she could hear the rapid footsteps of the other passengers as they rushed to fill their mouths with sweetness. The girl was insistent, and Ginger found herself in the long winding line. All of the passengers appeared to have risen for this experience. To maintain order, a waiter walked through the crowd, doling out, with silver tongs, chunks of milk chocolate to eager hands. Another waiter, dressed as a Kodiak bear, was offering cups of hot chocolate spiked with rum. There was a radiant excitement in the air.
    Darlene was chatty. “After this I go on a diet,” the girl said. “A major one. Celery and water for weeks . . .”
    Ginger knew that she herself would never go on another diet. She pressed her hands to her waist, her hips. She wanted all of thechocolate, now. She moved quickly, placing truffles, chocolate-dipped potato chips, macaroons, chocolate torte, mousse, fudge on her tray. She was so hungry she was in pain.
    When they sat down, she looked at the girl and she wanted to convince her of something; she wanted to shout into Darlene’s ear.
    â€œI’ve had better than this,” she said. “1959. The Academy Awards party at the Sheraton. Truffles everywhere. I said I was a waitress. I said in my off-hours I was working for Cary Grant’s father, who I said was dying of cancer, and could they please contribute to a cancer fund—” She paused. “They were a nice bunch. Generous. I actually have a high opinion of mankind—”
    â€œDid anyone get mad at you?” asked Darlene.
    â€œMad?” asked Ginger.
    â€œWhen they realized that you had taken their money—”
    Ginger rose halfway in her seat. “Why would I care?” asked Ginger. “Look. You go to a regular job. They tell you what you’re worth. Or you love him and he leaves you and you feel like you’re nothing at all. Darling, I don’t have to tell my worth to anyone.”
    Darlene looked down. The longing in the girl’s face was like a bright wound.
    â€œWhat was so good about him anyway?” asked Ginger.
    â€œHe said my eyes were pretty,” Darlene said. “He also liked listening to the Cherry Tones. He liked to put his hands in my hair—”
    This was the material of love? “So fool him into loving you.”
    â€œHow?” Darlene stared, desolate, at slices of chocolate cake so glossy they appeared to be ceramic.
    â€œWhat did he want? Pretend to be it,” said Ginger.
    â€œHe wanted a million dollars.”
    â€œSo say you’ve won the lottery,” said Ginger. She bit into a truffle.
    â€œBut I didn’t.”
    â€œNo one knows what they want until you show them.”
    Darlene’s face was flushed, excited. “But I want him to love the real me—”
    â€œWho do you think you are?” said Ginger. “No one. We all are. That’s what I do, notice no ones—”
    â€œI’m not no one,” said Darlene, huffily. “I come from a nice suburb of San Diego. My father is a successful