Free Practical Jean by Trevor Cole

stopped suddenly on the walk and turned as if to go back to her car. But then she lifted her right arm and seemed startled by the purse dangling from her shoulder, and resumed her advance to the door.
    â€œOh, jeez, I’m late, aren’t I?” she said, giggling as she entered. “D’you know what? I thought it was last night and I’d missed it. Really, seriously, I’m such a loser sometimes.” Looking off into the living room she slipped out of her pumps as if she were stepping off a log and then studied with apparent confusion the bouquet in her hand. “Right. So I saw this bouquet at that little shop on the corner of Cumner. You know those two old gay men?”
    â€œAren’t they lovely?” said Jean. “So personable.”
    â€œI know, I know, they’re great, they’re so great. And I saw this bouquet, and you can ignore all the flowers”—Louise made spattery gestures with her free hand at the many colored blooms—“because they’re just, well I know you’re not into those. But I just thought, you know, the leaves were nice.” She giggled again.
    Taking the bouquet, Jean knew there was nothing interesting about the leaves. They were just more of the typical florist greenery—a few cuttings of leatherleaf fern and cocculus—and she’d long ago exhausted any artistic potential there. No, it was Louise thinking of leaves at all that touched her. “That’s so sweet,” she said.
    â€œHey, Louise,” said Milt from the limits of the foyer. “Can I interest you in a Mojito?”
    â€œOh, sure, that’d be great.”
    â€œReally?” said Jean. It was easy to believe that Louise might not be clear on the nature of Mojitos. “It’s sort of a resorty cocktail with sugar.”
    â€œYeah, yeah. Well, actually,” she paused to wave at Natalie in the living room, “uh, Milt and I were both in the liquor store when they were giving out samples of this mix they had and it was pretty good.”
    Jean turned toward her husband. “Is that right, Milt?” she said. “Is that what gave you the idea for Mojitos?”
    Milt went somewhat still and nodded to Jean with a certain care. “Yes.”
    Jean glanced back at Louise, who was staring at the flowers in Jean’s hands. “Well, good!” she said to Milt with a light laugh. “At least you won’t be drinking that whole pitcher yourself.”
    For an hour or so, they just chatted, Jean and her friends, and Milt, of course, staying rather quiet now with his tall, tinkling glass. Seeing all of them seated in her living room, comfortable and well served with drinks and snacks, Jean let herself enjoy, for a while and to the degree that she was able, the fun of having everyone together. Dorothy quickly dropped the pretense of soda and moved to wine, which allowed her to talk about men she found attractive, and that was always fun. Louise did a masterful job of mining the woeful ignorance of her students for everyone’s entertainment. Natalie was her usual feisty self. On books: “You know what burns my ass? Novels that try to teach me something. I want a story, not a goddamn textbook.” On Hollywood: “Political movie stars make me puke. Hey, Bozo, your opinion on gun control is an assault on my pleasure.” On Adele: “Farbridge, where are those butter tarts you promised, warming on your manifold?” And Adele had to stop talking about foreign exchange risk and who got drunk at Davos and give her apologies. Apparently there’d been a line at the tart shop that would have delayed her arrival for thirty minutes. “That’s how marvelous their tarts are,” she insisted. So about the tarts, at least, everyone understood.
    But it wasn’t quite the usual gathering for Jean. She felt an urgency in the midst of her friends that had to do with more than making sure their glasses