She had a copy of the Paris Review sitting on her coffee table and told me George Plimpton had once tried to pick her mother up in a bar on President’s Day. She had turned him down, of course.
“I mean, she knew who he was,” she said twirling her hair in her fingers, coiling and uncoiling her blonde curls as if they were nothing more than amusements. “She just wasn’t attracted to him.”
A hearty thanks to the edtiors, especially Amanda Miska, for including it. This is a piece I’ve been working on for years, and I have a real soft spot for it. And it really means a lot to be a part of what they’re doing.