Fiction | March 01, 1991

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Louise, who is pushing down the tall grasses near the land of menopause, accepts an invitation from Mona, who is not that far behind. Mona could use the sight of Louise. “I need a drinking companion,” she says. Louise can hear the twins wailing in the background. “We don’t drink anymore,” Louise reminds her. “But we can talk about it, can’t we? Remember pink gins?” “That wasn’t us, Mona, pink gins. That was our grandmothers.” “Don’t quibble, Just get off the bus at Concord. I’ll pick you up.” “I’ll come Friday. Thursday I’ve got my teeth.”

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