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didn’t get him to sign ’em or anything, so who’s to say they were really Trent’s? She also mentioned some pretty explicit anatomical details, if you catch my drift. Anyway, Trent asked her to button up about it, so she had a big confrontation with Apurva in the cafeteria.”
    “ Damn, Frank. What happened?”
    “ Well, Sonya informed her that she’d made it with her husband and that proved that he really loved her instead of Apurva, and that she should do the honorable thing and just go the hell back to India.”
    “ Jesus. What did Trent say?”
    “ Trent wasn’t there. He was at the regional swim finals. I think that’s why Sonya picked that day for the fight.”
    “ Did Apurva attack her?”
    “ No, she just sort of cried hysterically. But Candy Pringle dumped her lunch tray over Sonya’s head, and those two mixed it up pretty well. I guess Candy and Apurva are kind of buddies now since they both got screwed over by their dudes.”
    Head cheerleader Candy Pringle has been going through a prolonged rocky patch with star quarterback Bruno Modjaleski.
    “ Damn, Frank, I hope Apurva’s OK.”
    “ Well, all three got suspended. The rumor is Trent and Apurva are now seeing a marriage counselor.”
    Thank God. No way I could afford to fly back there now to patch things up. And I need that marriage to last!
    “ I hope you know what you’re doing, Rick.”
    “ Why, Frank? What do you mean?”
    “ If Nick Twisp ever finds out you married Sheeni, you’ll be dead meat for sure.”
    “ Relax, Frank. That guy can’t touch me.”
    Another lie. He touches me all the time. He touched me this afternoon too, despite two sessions this morning with my lovely wife. Why do guys have only one thing on the brain?
    8:13 p.m. I was making dinner and babysitting Maurice when My Love trudged up the stairs. I don’t know how she’s going to manage all those steps in a few months when burdened with an 18pound fetus. This touchy topic, I’ve noticed, we both leave untouched. Nor has Sheeni been warming up to Maurice, even though he’s about 8,000 times nicer than her own stupid dog Albert. So far, for example, he’s shown no inclination toward turning me over to the gendarmes.
    I got totally jealous when she revealed that she had spent the day at the Musée Rodin. Not that eyeballing dreary sculptures had much appeal, but she mentioned that on her way she saw the Eiffel Tower. She couldn’t fathom my interest in that monumental erection.
    “ It’s not like it’s a magnificent work of art by a creative genius such as Rodin. It’s just an exercise in engineering. Rather like the Golden Gate Bridge. I can’t believe tourists come from all over the world to gawk at a highway bridge.”
    I felt obliged to defend my hometown landmarks. “Well, Sheeni, you do get a nice view of the city from mid-span.”
    “ If you’re lucky. Half the time it’s socked in solid with fog. At least the Eiffel Tower has a nice restaurant on it.”
    “ Really? Why don’t we go sometime?”
    “ Are you paying? Meals at the Jules Verne start at E300 per person.”
    Jesus, and I thought San Francisco was into tourist gouging.
     
    SUNDAY, May 23 — Today we took an ambitious subway ride out to the porte de Clignancourt to tour the Marché aux Puces— the famous Paris flea market. Since the Métro is supposed to be rife with thieves and pickpockets, I was on hyper-paranoid alert the entire way. And nobody told us that part of the journey is by foot. Changing trains to connect to another line involved trouping down endless corridors like some underground Bataan death march. At least there was plenty of unabashed billboard nudity along the way to revive one’s lagging spirits.
    The flea market itself is enormous—sprawling over many streets and through dozens of buildings. Quite a smorgasbord of goods— from low-life peddlers hawking junk gleaned from dumpsters to swanky antique shops with vintage Art Deco furniture that could put a big