Kathleen Tessaro

Le droit de choisir was how she put it. The right to choose

‘No, I’m quite serious. People take for granted what is in fact an art. To live well, to live comfortably by one’s own standards takes a certain maturity of spirit, exceptional character, truly refined taste, and—’

‘And money.’

condemned to the Sisyphean fate

A proximity that mimicked intimacy.

Like a hand reaching out across the impossible distance to pierce the veil that separated them

the delicate shades of a summer’s sky.

Love was an art, a game teased out and manipulated by skilled players.

listening to the ticking clock, the dull hum of the refrigerator

Pretty girls didn’t lead independent lives; didn’t Eva d’Orsey know that? Their triumphs were measured in the swiftness with which they moved from one pair of waiting arms to another. It was the less fortunate girls – the ‘sensible’ and ‘clever’ ones – who had to face the world on their own.

The clock ticked; here the city felt removed.