Wasting on the Vine

Say what you will about philanthropists, Emily thought, but at least they kept her calendar fill and her glass full of wine. She sipped at it, looking around bored, until she saw him.

It was the Indian, Kumar. Ian wasn't around. He was probably banging Betty, Emily thought sourly. So she approached Kumar.

"Emily," he said, smiling broadly. It is good to see you again.

They talked for awhile. About art. About India. About their restless and unsatisfying personal lives. And by the end, Emily got her ticket to temptation. A card with Kumar's hotel name and room number. Emily tucked it into her purse, ready for her doldrums to at last end.