What is Miss Treece’s trouble, according to a popular notion? 

The man A has failed to show up. 

Arousing herself at the restaurant, she fixes her lipstick when her solo supper concludes and takes herself down the stairs situated behind the bar. 

There, at her business in the restroom, the foamy hand soap is suggestive of fun, but there’s the wringing of her hands and the twitching of her fingers while she washes. 

“I never heard. I don’t know . . . ” Another woman was speaking into her phone before clicking it off. And these two women might have briefly inspired one another had they smiled, because they were both disillusioned. 

But they might still build temples to themselves of volume and color, as a poet once said.


Happily, Miss Treece’s home is very well lit, very inviting, and she keeps the door unlocked so you don’t have to hesitate to go in.