A young woman came out as I was having a short smoke on the patio and asked for a light. She was amused by my huge cigar match, which I got from the local fancy liquor store. Hey, she said, they stopped carrying my favorite wine! Her favorite wine is Chilean and she can only get it by the case now. She pointed to a fortyish man and an older Indian fellow inside and said: that’s my fiancé and my mother’s best friend. They’re planning out my future. I think I am going to maybe dump him.
She then proceeded to tell me all about her life: this fiancé, the previous one, their high status and money, their disregard for her, her own money, etc. Brand names and money figures all over the place. She was nervous, needy, twitchy.
“He’s unhappy because my ex boyfriend lives right around here, has a $3.2 million home.”
“Does he think you’ll cheat on him?”
“If you were just my girlfriend, I might be nervous about the ex. But fiancé? It shouldn’t be a question, even.”
“I’d never cheat on him. Well I did once but we were broken up at the time.”
Another 15 minutes of conversation, mostly consisting of her spitting out symbols of wealth and complaining about men. What she hadn’t done for him: plastic surgery, her hair colored just so by Jose Eber’s chief stylist. She didn’t like her nose; it was too Jewish she thought.
Eventually the fiancé and the older man came out and summoned her, and they all left.
She looked about 25, and maybe Persian. She had two names, one of which was Alexandria.