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Sport 35: Winter 2007

6

6.

'Point of etiquette number six. Bread-and-butter letters,' says Janice. Peter paid for her to have a French polish, and now her normally naked nails are the colour of moonstones. She admires them holding her fountain pen. 'After attending a social function or receiving a gift, one must always compose a letter. Forget about email; the watermarked heavy-wove paper is all part of the deal.'

She presses the nib down, and ink bleeds into the paper. 'Dear Mom,' she writes. 'Thank you for inviting me for lunch. I still haven't forgiven you. I would appreciate a little honesty in our relationship. You say that Dad left because he got himself into a pickle with Rita, but don't you think his cheating was symptomatic rather than causal? The man wanted to study art; you made him study law. Shit, you had page 164enough money to support him, why did you have to turn him into your father? Why are you such a control freak?'

'Cut!' says Peter.

'What did you think?' asks Janice. They didn't rehearse this, but she wants to be part of the creative process.

'I don't know, Janice. It's a bit heavy. It's not exactly what I had in mind. It's meant to be parody, not daytime soaps.'

'What do you mean, daytime soaps? This is my life I'm talking about. I thought you'd appreciate a little bit of revelation.'

'You of all people should understand. You just don't talk about that kind of thing in polite society. You keep that sort of stuff to yourself.'

'What, so you're polite society? Is that why you don't tell me about yourself? Is that why you still haven't invited me over to your apartment? I mean, hell, we've been going out for two months now. I'm beginning to think you might have a room full of your ex-girlfriends' heads.'

'Oh, come on. The reason I haven't invited you over is because it's such a wreck, I'm embarrassed.'

'I don't mind mess.'

Peter looks around, taking in her white bed linen, her red vase with its single orchid stem in it. His eyes run along her rack of neatly hung clothes, and out the window where her geraniums burst from their pots. 'Don't you?'