Description
The sky over midtown Manhattan is chilly blue and the mood vespertine as I slide behind the wheel of the sports car and press the starter button.
The motor coughs, then purrs, and soon the machine prowls, weaving through traffic down Park Avenue South. I wear sun- glasses, unnecessary in the dusk, and a colossal frown.
The conference over daiquiris with Mitch has done nothing to buoy my spirits nor to dispel the worries that have been haunting me lately. Oh, I realize that to the world at large I must appear a carefree soul, a dashing figure in the vintage Jaguar convertible with the top down, the wind ruffling my wheat-colored hair (daubed with gray at the temples), insouciance stamped on my chiseled profile.
On the outside I must present a very enviable picture, to be sure.
But inside I'm a bloody mess. . . .
