“Sure. My kid sister’s sixteen. My boyfriend is nineteen. You’re talking ‘bout my generation.” Laura keeps her hand on Sharon’s shoulder while she says this, grinning and transforming herself from naiad to LA-child-of-perpetual-sun. She might as well be freckled, she’s suddenly so cute.

She cants her head to one side as if a lightbulb has appeared in the space above her. She rolls her eyes up a little, and Sharon can see how clear the whites are. Admires the arch of the smooth throat. She’s pulled out of a reverie by Laura’s next words: “There’s an old guitar in the Mercado.”

“Hmmm?”

“No. It’s the perfect gift. I just remembered it.”

“I didn’t see any guitar.” Sharon’s eyes blank as she mentally reviews the Mercado’s inventory. She can see the heavy silver from Tasco along the right counter, the corny painted ceramics along the left. Overpriced clothing at the back wall, books and knick-knacks near the central register. No musical instruments.

“There’s only the one. Actually, it belongs to the manager. It’s quietly for sale. But any teenager would love it. An old damaged Hansen, so fingerworn it hardly has a fret left. You should at least look at it.”

Sharon mashes her lower lip between thumb and forefinger. “I ‘on’t know…” she manages around her fingers. She drops her hand suddenly. “Jessica is into music. But I don’t want to encourage noisemaking. I was hoping she’d stay with Girls’ Chorus and the classics.”

Laura laughs out loud.

Sharon looks a little wry.

Other diners need refills, and Laura notices. “I’ll let you know if I think of anything else,” she says as she moves with her pitcher to the adjacent table. She wears her white apron like a sarong. “But check out the old guitar.”

Sharon nods at her but Laura isn’t looking back. “No way is that woman in my kid’s generation,” she mutters. “…and I doubt she really knows what Jess wants.”

She stretches her arms above her head. “Oh it’s good to relax,” she claims, fidgeting as she exhales, clenching her shoulders and neck. She’s so competitive she’ll argue about how much less tense she is than the next person, all the while pulling at her mouth.

“I’ll get Jessica something useful,” she concludes. “An outfit that will minimize her hips or make her feel better about her bustline. Yes.”

Laura doesn’t notice when Sharon leaves the diningroom. She heads for the kitchen and her next job while Sharon looks once more at Laura’s slim back, and then angles toward the Mercado. There she makes a point of not seeing a guitar. She doesn’t look in any corners and she doesn’t ask the sleepy clerk. She never notes the time-polished pegs, the frets worn smooth as ancient stone steps, the crazed oil dreamscape on the rounded back. She leafs through knit sportswear on plastic hangers, and she selects knee-length Lycra pants for Jessica to despise, and a vee-necked yellow T-shirt for herself. The color would flatter Laura but does nothing for Sharon’s sallow skin.

She spends ninety dollars plus tax and she walks out into the afternoon sun vaguely dissatisfied. Still astounded that Laura is so young. She aims her face upward, lengthening her neck until the wrinkles unfold and show thin stripes like stretchmarks where the sun hasn’t been, and she decides to sit by the pool. Get some color on her face. Such a pretty face. To be sure, much prettier than Jessica’s.