Alicia bounded out of her apartment in a clingy slip of cloth, sashaying in front of Rick . “Do you like my new dress?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t realize how much weight you’d put on.”

“If you didn’t have a face like a smacked bottom, maybe you could do better,” she replied. “Let’s go.”

They walked to the train, which whisked them across town to Alicia’s favorite restaurant, Mostly Chicken or Beef With Rice Pilaf. A bum outside held a sign that read, “Booze Isn’t Cheap.”

“Get a job,” Rick told him.

“Mentally ill,” the bum mumbled. “Can’t afford help.”

The restaurant was vaguely Mediterranean, with white tablecloths and wooden chairs. The waiter gave them menus and said he was taking a quick break. After fifteen minutes he returned with a basket of smoky bread; forty minutes later their food arrived. “Hurry up,” he told them. “People are waiting.”

Alice smiled at her chicken. “Isn’t it nice that we don’t have to be diplomatic anymore?”

“Peachy,” Rick said through a bite of steak. “Now shut up and eat.”