Alexandra

An expression of intense pain knit her brow even as the corners of her mouth lifted into a smile. She turned to Mona and inquired, “What is it you want, honey?”

Mona met her gaze, courageous, contemptuous. “A Pink Squirrel.”

Alex was bored. “Do you think this is the Roosevelt?” she asked.

“I beg your pardon,” replied Mona, undaunted.

I couldn’t bring myself to name the item a second time. “She means she doesn’t know how to make one of those,” I interrupted.

“Well then. A rum collins.”

Alex looked from Mona to me for confirmation. “A rum collins,” I repeated, trying my damndest to hold her attention. She turned away and engrossed herself in the preparation of our drinks. In a moment she set them before us and we were left to ourselves. I couldn’t concentrate on Mona’s chatter, though I knew it was about the meal we had just shared at the new hotel restaurant downtown. The food had been well prepared, served with solemnity and colorful trappings, the wine was, yes, I agreed, the wine might have been better. Mona was content, packed full of potatoes, veal, and bearnaise sauce, and her head swimming from the wine she had not thought quite good enough. From time to time I turned my attention to her to see how fast she was going under and how soon I would be able to whisk her back to her neat bungalow and return to devote myself to the observation of Alex.