"I'd be honored," Scott said as he nodded his head in gratitude.
Sonja Lindstrom bought the next two rounds and they talked. No serious talk, just carefree, sometimes meaningless banter that made them laugh and relish the moment. Scott didn't know he had missed his second flight until it was time for the 8:15 plane to LaGuardia. It had been entirely too long. Longer than he cared to remember since he had relaxed, disarmed himself near a woman. There was an inherent distrust, fear of betrayal, that Scott had not released, until now.
"So, about your wife," she asked after a lull in their conversa- tion.
"My wife?" Scott shrank back.
"Humor me," she said.
"Nothing against her, it just didn't work out."
"What happened?" Sonja pursued.
"She was an artist, a sculptor. And if I say so myself, an awful one. A three year old could do as well with stale Play-Dough."
"You're a critic, too?" Sonja bemused.
"Only of her art. She got into the social scene in New York, gallery openings, the she-she sect. You know what I mean?" Sonja nodded. "So, when I decided to make a career shift, well, she wasn't in complete agreement with me. Even though in 8 years she had never sold one single piece of art, she was convinced, by her socialite pals, that her work was extraordinarily original and would become, without any doubt, the next Pet Rock of the elite."