::fragments::

Stephen and I were having dinner in New York, in someone's apartment. The couple we were dining with owned the place--a very luxurious but dark home--and they looked to be in their 40s. The woman had short, straight brown hair and wore red lipstick. They were caucasian and well-off and there was something unusual about eating there. When everyone got up from the table to leave--to go sightseeing?--I pointedly remarked to Stephen that I wasn't ready to go, Can't anyone see that? I said, as I held the gingerbread, or cornbread, in my hands. Their plates were clean. I could tell I had done something akin to a tantrum and everyone uneasily settled back down to the table. I was instantly angered. I barely knew these people, Stephen seemed to side with them, and I wasn't even having a good time.