Tragedy was just offstage in _Jersey
Girl_, momentarily held at bay by sex and love and hope. "All downhill
from here, Mark."
"Life is fine, my man."
"What? Must be a new dancer in town. How do you do it, anyway?"
"Innate sensuality," Mark said. "One glance across a crowded room . .
."
"Yeah, right. My rooms are crowded with women in black pants who have
eyes only for each other. Although, I did see a beauty in Becky's this
morning. Had two little girls with her---and a friend."
"What kind of friend?"
"A lady friend, not a black pantser, I'm pretty sure. Francesca, her
name was."
"Francesca? Tall chick? Good looking?"
"I wouldn't call her a chick, exactly. More like a Madonna by
Modigliani."
"Yeah, Francesca. She lives in Cape Elizabeth. I was in a yoga class
with her once."
"I ought to take yoga," Oliver said.
"The ratio is good, man. Francesca. That was years ago. She married
some guy who works for Hannaford's."
"I knew it," Oliver said.
"They can't help it," Mark said. "They have this nesting thing."
Dancers came to Portland, walked around the block a couple of times,
and met Mark. Six to eighteen months later, they married doctors.
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