Women Drinking Benedictine by Sharon Dilworth

ex-boss.” Sally listed men Amber would have rather forgotten. “All fine examples of your better taste in men.”
    â€œI’m warning you,” Amber held up her fist and shook it at Sally.
    â€œOh, skip the threats,” Sally said.
    â€œTake this as notice, then,” Amber said, and turned her hand in front of her mouth as if closing a lock. She was never going to speak to Sally again.
    â€œYou really are too big for your britches,” Sally said.
    â€œI’m too big,” Amber said. Again with the wordplay.
    â€œI didn’t mean it literally,” Sally said.
    â€œPerhaps she just meant it figure-atively.” Jane leaned across the table.
    â€œI wasn’t talking about weight,” Sally said, her face pink with embarrassment.
    â€œI guess not,” Amber said. “You never do.” She puffed out her cheeks like a blowfish.
    The noises they made at each other were like cats hissing.
    Amber looked over just as Maurice walked into the restaurant. She had not really expected to see him again, and she stood, knocking her champagne glass to the floor. It shattered when it hit the stone tiles.
    â€œMaurice,” she cried dramatically and kissed him on the lips. She left the table without saying a word to her friends.
    Maurice and Amber walked arm in arm through the streets of Antibes.
    He was nice. Curious to know about her life back in Pittsburgh, he asked a zillion questions. Amber liked the attention. The night air was pink, the setting sun glowed with her happiness. When they got to the beach, they began kissing frantically. The pine taste of his cologne coated her tongue, reminding her that she had not eaten since noon.
    She could feel the sand in her sandals. Her sunburned skin felt fresh and alive. She was not being stupid. Not with Maurice. She wasn’t dreaming. She wasn’t counting on wedding bells, as Sally always insisted she did. It felt nice to be appreciated. This is what life was all about. It was a shame she didn’t meet men like this more often.
    Maurice led her to the center of town, where, at the condom machine, he asked her for some money. She gave him one of her one hundred franc notes, which he slid into the opening before turning the knob. Her change spilled onto the street like money rolling from a slot machine. She was giddy and told him not to bother with the few francs that had rolled into the gutter.
    â€œDon’t be silly,” he scolded and pocketed all that he collected.
    The hotel across from the train station was dingy. The smell of cooked and cooking cabbage was everywhere. The bedspread was worn, the rug was mustard-colored and stained, and the window had no view except of the tracks, which might have been construed as romantic if the sun had been shining.
    â€œIt’s certainly not the Ritz,” she said.
    The lamp beside the bed did not work. Had she been with Sally and Jane, they would have taken one look and walked out. They did not suffer dingy surroundings. A clean and well-equipped bathroom was essential to a pleasant stay. But Amber did not want to give the impression of being an American snob, so she squinted her eyes until the room took on a nice glow and told Maurice she was having a good time.
    Maurice put his arms around her waist. “I have never loved so big,” he said. It sounded romantic in French and she was not at all embarrassed to undress in front of him.
    He kissed her lips. “Your lips are so pretty,” he cooed, and she believed him.
    He kissed her eyes. “Your eyes are so pretty.”
    Her throat. “Your throat is so pretty.”
    Her ears. “Your ears are so pretty.”
    Her hair. “Your hair….”
    Amber felt as if she were in the middle of a bad French lesson, but she did not want it to stop.
    When they finished making love, Maurice asked for money.
    â€œA few hundred francs, my pretty one,” he said in the same low throaty voice he had