Sharon being the oldest child observed her parents. Being the daughter the reader, she kept a diary. She took notes. She is fortunate to have parents long into her life, and she is able to see them in perspective. Watching from her back her knees her toddling sturdy legs her magical midget self her adolescent rigor her racing worrying maturity, she has witnessed her parents from their twenties to their geriatry, and she has seen them frame their worlds in diminishing portals till everything they view satisfies them in a sad accepting way.

“I will not go gently into that sloping tunnel,” Sharon thinks, envisioning her life as a journey in a cornucopia, “but maybe I’ll go speaking quieter.”

She pushes up from her desk chair. “I will, however, have to get into that bathroom,” and listens for Sam sounds. She thinks he’s out of the shower. “Hey: buddy! Can I get in there soon?” She raises her voice but she doesn’t shout. She is modulating. Sam answers “Just a minute,” and she figures she’ll have the bathroom in five.

She is meeting a local author tonight. She reviews for the neighborhood monthly magazine/newspaper, and this guy Saul A wrote a series of short stories about his family and heritage. Sharon is trying to compose a little literary criticism about the collection, but she has also agreed to have a drink with Mr. A. Tonight. She started with hoping the meeting would inspire her writing. Now she’s hoping for else.

She kind of hates reviewing. She has a bachelor’s degree in English lit but she never read or wrote criticism. She thinks most lit crit is just gossip. It’s okay with Sharon to put the writing in historical or societal perspective. But it’s not particularly useful or germane for her to receive biographical data about the author. Let alone a picture.

She got shanghaied into writing these reviews after the little paper published a couple of her poems. Which poems she only submitted on a dare from her friend David. Not even a dare, really. David must have gotten tired of hearing her read her verses to him. He almost submitted them for her, writing up the cover letter, typing the envelope. She was so gratified at first to be published, even in a neighborhood paper, that she agreed to write the random review. And now here is Mr. A’s Yiddishe yarns.

Or Hebrew hauntings? The stories aren’t stories, and that bothers Sharon. They’re beautifully written, and they’re emotion-jerkers, but they lack plot. Nothing happens. That irks her but she doesn’t want to pan the book.

She sits back instead, and envisions Saul A. He is tall, dark, and slim. She thinks he’s in his early fifties but he still has hair: salt-and-pepper, close-cut, curly. He has dark intelligent eyes and lovely large-nailed hands. Full lips a little sneery.

She thinks she will dress up for this drink. Wear a skirt. She rises and pulls on her thigh-high black stockings under her robe. She walks around her room for a minute, feeling the rub of her inner thighs above the lace top of the stockings, and her mood softens.