Turn 5 of 44

You agree as the salad is done and you two head to the table and eat. You two don’t eat much as women aren’t supposed to eat much. The man is allowed to. You Ask Vivian to start the makeover right after dinner. She agrees as the gossip continues. Soon you two are done eating and you both clean up the kitchen. The kitchen looks clean as Vivian says it’s time for the makeover. You get a smile

"Isn't it just," you say, and carry the salad to the table like a trophy. The oilcloth is cheerful under your fingers, the checkerboard floor gleams, and everything you set down finds its own right place before you think about it.

Dinner is a lovely, dainty affair. You serve both plates beautifully and eat almost none of it — a few leaves of romaine, one ring of shrimp, small bites held small. Vivian nods approvingly at your plate, and the knowledge settles in you warm and obvious: a woman eats like a bird, that's just how it's done. Men eat. That's what men are for. You catch yourself thinking it in Fred's direction, a husband you've never met, and the thought fits like a glove that's already broken in.

"Vivian," you say, folding your napkin into a neat triangle, "could we start the makeover right after dinner? I don't want to wait."

She sets down her fork — untouched, you notice, everything untouched, and the noticing slides off you like water off wax paper.

"Well, shucks, honey, I thought you'd never ask," she says, delighted. "A gal's first makeover. Why, it's practically a birthright." She leans in, pearl earrings swinging.

"Now — did you hear about the Priors? Splurging on a trip to Reno, of all places, when their roof needs doing. Some people have no sense of priorities."

"None at all," you agree, and your voice and hers twine together over the candles like two strands of the same ribbon. The gossip flows while the food sits. The woman at 14 Birchwood who "works" — the air quotes audible. The book club. Ruthie. You give opinions you didn't have an hour ago and they come out fully formed, polished, agreeable.

Soon the plates are cleared — hardly dented — and you wash and dry together in a rhythm so practiced it feels rehearsed, her drying, you shelving, the kitchen ending spotless, gleaming, squared away like a showroom. Vivian hangs the dish towel precisely on its bar and turns.

"Well!" she says, and smiles at you, wide and bright and proprietary, her orange nails catching the light.

"It's makeover time, honey. Go sit at the vanity and let's see what we're working with."