It was the culmination of weeks of long hours, of huddling together at the computer, of take-out at their desks after the cleaning staff had left. They were on the cusp of their greatest success. Both felt it. The exhaustion left them giddy. A fleeting moment of contact had evolved into a touch, then an embrace, and finally a headlong rush into lust. Then blessed release. Then embarrassment. Finally shame and guilt. And thus it was that one the eve of her greatest success, she had written her single greatest failure. And that was why she now looked at photographs, as though these frozen moments of happier times might suggest where things had gone so off the rails. Wedding pictures. Honeymoon pictures. They’d been so young then, though the notion applied more emotionally than chronologically. She scrolled. The photographs had long since been committed to memory. She sensed his presence behind her. After several months, she’d almost convinced herself that she’d imagined that night in. I told her I would pick her up in about an hour and she hung up without even saying goodbye. I next called Amber and got a sleepy-sounding “Hello.” I told her I would pick her up in about forty-five minutes on the way to get Tamara. Amber called me a dreadful human being and hung up. That Saturday was Gwen day. Long ago the three of us found out we did not have a lot in common when it came to what we enjoyed doing, so instead of arguing about it we decided that we would choose a Saturday out of the month and each of us would be able to pick what the other two would be doing with us. Last month was Amber Day and we ended up at the Gryphon Tea Room, dressed in summer dresses, stylish hats, and white gloves as we sipped tea and had brunch, and then we went shopping. The month before, on Tamara Day, we rode to Atlanta and went to Six Flags. Today we were going to make the hour and a half drive to exclusive Sea Island and go to the beach and mingle with the wealthy tourists who.
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