Bette contemplated the dirty dishes in her sink. Several days of coffee cups, the remnants of milk separating from the dark liquid rimming the bottom of each; her favorite bowl, a lovely piece of Southwestern pottery bought at an obscure gallery near the Desert Museum in Phoenix, now peppered with bits of white rice sticking to the edges; and an assortment of glassware with dirt and fingerprints dried onto the formerly smooth surfaces–all lined the bottom of the porcelain sink. She thought of a poem shed read in college about a woman who left dirty dishes in her sink because it was the only thing that gave her a purpose in life. If she cleaned them and put them away, shed have nothing to live for. Bette strained her brain trying to remember which suicidal woman wrote the poem, Sylvia Plath? No, probably Anne Sexton. How have I arrived at a point in my life where I understand that poem? Bette thought ruefully. She put another coffee mug onto the pile and left the kitchen.

Bette packed for her trip to New York in silence, the noise from the television or stereo was an irritation rather than a distraction. She almost instinctively grabbed the matching Prada shoes and bag that perfectly complemented the white suit shed tossed into her garment bag. As an afterthought she threw in a pair of casual slacks and a few tank tops for layering, on the off-chance that she had the time or the inclination to do something other than work. Bette heard the insistent beeping of the taxis horn and quickly gathered her things and left the house, dirty dishes and all.

***

Checking in Miss Porter? asked the cheerful bellhop.

Please Greg, its Bette, smiled the tired woman as she exited the hotels airport shuttle. Hows the dancing going?

Well, you know Im just waiting for the time to unleash my unlimited talent on Broadway, said Greg, pulling Bette into a Fred Astaire-style twirl. But you know New York City, ***** men in tights are a dime a dozen!

Bette smiled and leaned over to grab her bag, just beating Greg to it. Ive got it, she said, swinging the bag over her shoulder.

Just you this time, no Miss Tina? asked Greg.