She feels eyes on her as she enters the mahogany room. Against all sound medical judgment-she’d taken a pharmacology class at Wellesley-she pops another tiny blue pill. Inside the marble lobby of the Carlyle hotel, she makes a beeline for the bar. She’s a therapist making $30K a year, for fuck’s sake, not some businessman on an expense account. She catches him stealing a look at the bill, unimpressed. Sure, in that outfit, a friend.Įlla slips out of the car and palms the kid a five. He’s in his twenties and gives her the once-over. Last time, she’d promised herself that it would be the last time.Ī young guy in a bellhop uniform stands at her window now. The frenetic confluence of cabbies rage-driving, cops jetting by with sirens blaring, pedestrians all but challenging you to run them over as they step defiantly into the street. Driving into Manhattan always stresses her out. Ella pops a Xanax as she waits for the valet to take her keys.
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