He had hoped that she would sit next to him in the car, in the smooth space between the seats. Instead she slumped on the armrest near the window, like a person found against a door after a fire. She had been awful in the play. She knew it, she knew the kids would know it, she knew the kids would know that she knew it. He was the only one that didn’t know. This was because he didn’t know anything about art. What she could tell him about art if he’d only listen to her! She had been trained as a ballerina and a basket weaver, but people told her—strangers on the street!—that she was too lovely not to act. So she joined a local troupe and acted lovely in a terrible play. This play was not art! Did he know? No, he did not.
Maybe they should yell some more, by the parked car, in front of the headlights where it would look really dramatic. She made a lot of vigorous hand motions as she screamed at him, like she was landing a transatlantic flight at Idlewild. He kept his arms crossed and pulled a surprised expression like a passive-aggressive fish. When they yelled together, it was like they were really important people. Loud artists. It didn’t matter. In a few months they would be in Paris, yelling in French. Like really important French people. Things would be so much better there, so angry and alive!
Luxurious bomber made from silky goat suede. Action back for easy movement. Covered center placket for a clean look.
J.Cruel 
Richard Yates would be proud.