It’s nice to see you again,” Mrs. McKinley greeted me warmly. She was always so sweet to me. I hoped that the news about me and Stephen wouldn’t...change her opinion of me. “Katya, hun, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Bob?” Mr. McKinley said with a chuckle as he kissed me on the cheek. Every week it was the same thing, and yet every week I would call him Mr. McKinley. It seemed rude to use his first name. “I’m sorry! I forget!” I replied, same as always. They drifted off towards. Standing easily in freshly-polished Oxfords, he felt overdressed though extremely presentable. Guests made do on shrimp, an open bar and futile attempts at clever conversation. The generous circulation of older women, which at his age, 21, relative, struck him oddly. Those piquing him weren’t crones or haggard. Women throughout their 30s and 40s fluttered around Duff Scharlach’s gallery. Working on some antsy schedule, these women frequently landed, nervously burbled, then flew. He assumed. More

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