From behind her pillow Doris pulled out a fat, once-glossy magazine of a type not published for generations. It was dated January, 1959, and Justin had brought it home from the college library to amuse her. Turning to a splashy, full-page cigarette ad, she asked:
"Were they really manufactured a hundred years ago?"
"Oh, yes, they called them tailor-mades." He closed an eye to recall a specific fact. "Americans smoked nearly half a trillion a year. It was a tremendous industry."
Doris said slowly:
"You ought to have something relaxing to do."
"I could get drunk on lab alcohol, but that's illegal, too." He sat down beside her and stroked her neck. "Besides, I have you."
"You're leering! I'll see you after the baby is born."
She turned a page. It was hard to tell whether the slim girl stepping from the orchid-colored Cadillac in front of the theatre marquee was advertising the Cartier emerald necklace or the sable coat.
"You never see anything like this," Doris said.