My father and I went to the local Holiday Inn for our Thanksgiving dinner.
My mother was indisposed, once again, because of her drinking.
We ran into Anastasia at the restaurant; she was one of my father’s loyal, female friends. If I had looked closely, I might have seen the Trojan condoms in her Lucite handbag; Anastasia was a wealthy divorcée who got her kicks by pimping for the secret society of artistic, homosexual men in the East Memphis neighborhood.
She threw raucous, extravagant parties where handsome young boys and older patrician men were introduced. Women were invited also, but they tended to be in their 50s and 60s and were oblivious to Anastasia’s lascivious machinations.