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theater with friends, drinking a pink cocktail in a bar after a play, different than she usually was for a little while, glancing at the door through the hazy curtain of smoke and walking home with long strides? Not because that was her nature, but because it was, in some mysterious way, the nature of the dress ?
    â€œWhere’d you find that?”
    Grandma is standing in the doorway.
    â€œIt was in this closet. This isn’t your 1950 s dress, is it?”
    Grandma gives the dress a long look.
    â€œTake it.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI don’t need it. Take it with you. You can wear it to parties and things. What about the Bianca dress? Why didn’t you put that one on? Grab that one instead.”
    â€œIs it all right if I wear this one?”
    Grandma shrugs. “If you like,” she says, as if she wanted to dissociate herself from the whole thing.
    Then she goes to the closet and immediately finds what she’s looking for. She takes off her skirt and blouse. For a moment she’s standing in the middle of the room pale-skinned, looking slightly helpless. Anna looks at the path of her spine, clearly defined, and keeps her shock at arm’s length. She’s so thin! She helps with the zipper, gently, gently. The dress is ridiculously loose, at least two sizes too big. Anna considerately makes no mention of this.
    Her grandma looks satisfied.
    â€œRight, then. Everything’s ready. I even have onion pie,” she says proudly. “I baked it yesterday when I got tired of having cancer.”
    THEY PACK A basket with a baguette and brie and onion pie and two small bottles of mineral water, plus some grapes, fruit salad, and the olive focaccia that Anna brought. They take along a quilt and head out like parisiennes. Grandma ties a scarf over her wisp of hair and puts on her old Chanel sunglasses.
    They sit in the swing under the chestnut tree. Anna pours the wine while her grandma opens wrappers.
    â€œAlways did like the sound of wine being poured. When I was young I was afraid that I might well become an alcoholic, I liked it so much. But then I realized that I was more fond of the anticipation of festivity than I was of the wine itself.”
    Her gaze takes in the fluffy clouds, the boundless May sky, the nightingale on a branch of the tree, on silent watch before spending its evening song.
    â€œI wouldn’t hold it against you if you got a little drunk,” Grandma says, sipping from her glass.
    Anna tastes her wine. Grandma pats her encouragingly on the leg.
    â€œSo. Woman to woman, as we planned. Tell me about Matias. He’s a sharp boy—and pretty. But I can see that there’s a rub. Is it sex? Is that the trouble? Shy balls? A stiff pelvis? Or is it that the choreography’s clumsy? Sex is often better if you think of it as a dance. Men don’t always understand that, although I never would have thought Matias had poor rhythm.”
    Anna gets some wine in her nose. “Shy balls?”
    Grandma pops a grape in her mouth as if she’s talking about a rise in the price of milk. “Why sugarcoat it? Sometimes sensitive men are dull in bed.” She sighs as if this was an unfortunate fact. “Let’s just say there are men who like to turn the light out before they get going. It’s usually shy balls. It’s often associated with a high level of education and problems of attachment in childhood.”
    â€œI hope this isn’t one of the great insights of your career.”
    â€œWhat if it is?”
    â€œThen I should call Ilta Sanomat and give them a headline.”
    Grandma laughs. Anna can see her pink tongue. A person’s tongue is the same from childhood to old age, the same tongue fumbling for the breast and later on for other food, the same tongue forming words, professions of love, and commands and scientific debates and more professions of love and requests and thanks for the care and