From a morning’s journal while in Paris recently. Not about what you might think. Thank you, Chicago Literati, for publishing.
Two weeks in Paris, Philip and I. Him, teaching. Me…well, nothing really. Keeping house. Grocery shopping. Dinner. Playing Betty to Philip’s Don Draper. Our own little episode of Mad Men, only Mad Men in Paris. Up in my robe and slippers making coffee, toast and juice (but no eggs, let’s not get crazy; I don’t cook.) Kiss him at the door and push it closed and then turn back to the empty flat.
I sit at the kitchen table and stare at nothing. If I were Betty, I’d be smoking. Like Betty, I am drinking coffee. When I was a kid in the 60s, the 70s, a lot of moms I knew were Bettys. Sitting, drinking coffee, smoking, staring.
At a friend’s house (Alice Dyer, name changed, obviously) on a summer afternoon and there is Mrs. Dyer at the table. Did she smoke? I can’t recall. I think not…
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