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walked off.
    No one called after her. No one ever did. Despite her myriad professional accomplishments, Gus was still the one whom everyone was always whispering about, wondering if she was happy, worrying about whether she was “okay.”
    “What the heck is her problem?” Olympia heard Gus ask Perri with a sniffle.
    Once ensconced in Perri and Mike’s guest bathroom with its recurring tulip motif, Olympia splashed cold water on her face. Then she took a long look at herself in the mirror over the sink, just as she’d taken long looks thousands of times before. Although Olympia had never been able to judge her own appearance with anything close to objectivity, having alwaysconcentrated her attentions on her few faults (such as her ever so slightly beaked nose), as opposed to her many assets (such as her high cheekbones, Barbie doll body, and luxurious mane), she was also aware that she wouldn’t have gotten the attention she’d gotten in life if she hadn’t looked the way she had. At the same time, she was increasingly aware that her age was catching up with her face. Every morning, it seemed, there were new little lines around her mouth and eyes. It was as if she went to bed with a draftsman lying under her pillow.
    It was also true that, after a lifetime spent placing a premium on beauty, she’d begun to tire of her own vanity and of feeling as if she had to be the most beautiful woman in any room. It was too much work, too much pressure. Standing there staring at herself, Olympia wondered how soon it might be before the “you’re so beautiful” chorus went quiet. Already, it had decreased in volume from mezzo forte to mezzo piano. Would she be devastated, relieved, or some combination of the two? At least then, maybe, people would stop asking how a woman “who looks like you do” could “possibly be single.” Maybe also she’d stop feeling so much pressure to marry. At the insistence of friends, she’d tried Internet dating. But the question-and-answer sessions that passed for first dates reminded her of job interviews. And all the men seemed desperate. As if any womb would do. And hers was getting old. Dating was also expensive. Every mocha latte at Starbucks required paying a babysitter for a minimum of three hours.
    Or was she just looking for excuses because she was still obsessed with Patrick Barrett? Four years later, she could hardly say his name out loud. They’d met at the art opening of his friend, Brian, who made shiny red photographs of tree branches. At the time, Olympia had been a glorified “gallerina”at a big-name 57th Street gallery. Brian, while not the biggest of the big-name artists, had been in the gallery’s regular stable. Olympia had gone over to congratulate him on the show—and also to find out who the handsome man with the deep-set eyes standing next to him was. “Meet my do-gooder best friend,” Brian had said.
    “What exactly do you do that’s good?” Olympia had asked.
    “I run a community center for disadvantaged youth,” Patrick had told her.
    “In East New York,” Brian had added.
    “Not by choice,” Patrick had said. “It was the only job I could get straight out of prison.”
    “Prison?” Olympia had asked.
    “He’s joking,” Brian had said. “I think.”
    “You guys are hilarious,” Olympia had told them.
    “Some people find me funny,” Patrick had said. “Other people, extremely dull.”
    “Well, I guess you’ll have to find out which people I am,” Olympia had said, head cocked coyly. It had all been her fault. She’d started the flirting.
    “I guess so,” Patrick had said. “And what do you do?”
    “I work here.”
    “Doing what?”
    “Well, mostly I stand around helping create a certain ambiance conducive to rich people buying art,” she’d told him. “I do some other important stuff, too, like ordering coffee.”
    “It sounds very important,” he’d answered.
    It had also been obvious at first glance that Patrick Barrett