Murdering Mr. Monti: A Merry Little Tale of Sex and Violence by Judith Viorst Page B

(which was quite poignant) or my reply (which was quite constructive). I simply want to say that although I, too, bring my can-do attitude to things like broken furnaces and flat tires, I find them harder to cope with than the big stuff. Indeed, unlike “Inadequate in Islip,” I’m at my best when disaster really strikes.
    Leaning over and giving Jeff a reassuring hug, I said in a voice of absolute conviction, “Don’t worry, darling. Don’t worry. I promise that we’re going to straighten this out.”
    Now all I had to figure out was how.

3
    •
OY, IS THAT A GENIUS!
    A couple of years ago, at Nora’s annual New Year’s Day party, Philip Eastlake confided to me that he had been born an Epstein in Newark, New Jersey. He said he was telling me this because he sensed what he called a “simpático something” between us, a simpático something which, were we not married to two other people, would surely have burgeoned, he said, into something quite . . . passionate, I think he fondled my earlobe as he confided this to me, but having consumed several cups of Nora’s famous champagne punch, I was feeling far too fuzzy to be sure.
    Last year Philip was at Nora’s party with a Cher-like brunette approximately his daughter’s age Unhappily, he confided to me, his marriage of thirty-seven years was through. He added that although he was finding some temporary solace between the silken thighs of his well-toned companion, he remained convinced that the seasoned consolations of September were far, far richer than those of girlish May. He then plunged his eyeballs so deeply into mine that I felt that I had been ocularly raped.
    Philip, who possesses the carved beauty of Gregory Peck in his middle years and whose silver hair is so magnificently coiffed that I have often teen tempted to ask him the name of his stylist, flashed me his internationally famous TV smile, “If only . . .” he began, but at that point girlish May beckoned to him across a crowded room. He sighed, pressed his cheek against mine, and departed, his padded shoulders drooping in an eloquent gesture of reluctant adieu.
    This year, at the New Year’s Day party, I was ready and waiting for Philip, for only a few days before I had begun to consolidate my final adultery list. Philip was the first (and thus far the only) name in my Definite Lovers column, and I wanted to convey that information. Indirectly. Adorably. Unmistakably.
    Actually, Philip made it quite easy for me, having arrived at Nora’s party both unmarried and alone, and more than willing to be led to the quiet of Nora’s den for what I called (this is the indirect part) “our annual chat.” I brought along a platter of Nora’s miniature spinach crepes (elegant and attractive when served with a dollop of sour cream and red caviar), and soon Philip and I were playfully popping crepes (this is the adorable part) into each other’s eagerly open mouth. When some of the sour cream dribbled onto Philip’s finely sculpted lower lip, he reached for a napkin. I shook my head and gently pulled it away. “No, no,” I said, “let me,” and then I flicked out my tongue and (this is the unmistakable part) slowly and thoroughly licked his lower lip clean.
    I figured that after about ten years of chaste New Year’s Day flirting, my I’m-available message mighttake even faze-proof Philip by surprise. I decided to give him a little assistance in processing it.
    “You’re quite a remarkable fellow, Philip Eastlake,” I said archly (though arch is not my strong suit), giving his lip a “there—you’re all cleaned up” tap. “You know, I watched your program on the philosophy of Wittgenstein. And the one on Lebanon. And that program you did on Oriental art. And that program on the fantasy life of children. And—what can I say?—I’m absolutely staggered.”
    “I hope that means,” Philip said archly (he’s fabulous at arch), “that my humble efforts met with your