They continue to eat at chic downtown restaurants, wearing Ann Taylor office suits and Donna Karan hose, sprinkling "God" into the conversation over chicken Ceasar salads. They couldn't rescue Naomi from the periphery and seem indifferent over her transformation into a passing thought.
She asked me to have lunch with her. I agreed.
But today I cringe. Behind my electric blue eyeshadow is a soul who will not see what she may too delightfully describe.