John had spent all of Thursday in the studio. He walked into the kitchen where Nancy was pouring over brochures – caterers, flowers, music. It was endless, planning a wedding. How it had all fallen on her she couldn’t remember. She did have a vague memory of wanting to elope. But John had explained the necessities of presentation, what with the Gallery show this coming winter. And then there was mother, of course. Nancy had pushed back her book deadline twice already. The thread of her novel seemed lost now anyhow, spread out on this kitchen table somewhere between orchids and taffeta and four piece orchestras.
John was painted in blood red and Nancy asked him how things were going. “I’m so tired, darling. Do we have any food?” he asked.
She knew that was his way of asking if she would make him something.