“Don’t get too excited,” said Carmen, who’d just gotten a perm and whose hair was painfully curly, not like Sherri’s loose locks but tight and springy as steel wool. She’d come into Sherri’s room and cried and cried when she’d first returned from the salon. Her hair made her seem even more unhinged. “I hate to tell you, but most men are just looking to leave a scratch on your bedpost.”

“Not Mitch,” said Sherri. “He’s into me.”

“That’s what they all say. Anyway, I don’t need a man,” Ginger said, picking up a swizzle stick and raising it in the air. “I’ve got an electric toothbrush.”

They sank back shots of Jägermeister that a bunch of guys in hunting camo and blaze-orange hats had sent over. “You think he’s married?” Val asked.

“No way.” The thought hadn’t even occurred to Sherri, but of course that was something Val wondered, since she was a two-timer herself.

“Say he was,” Carmen said. “Would it matter?”

“Sure, it would matter,” Sherri said. “I couldn’t possibly share a man with someone else.” Already she was imagining Mitch out in the world meeting other women, who might be prettier, smarter, richer, and more accomplished than she was. The thought made her crazy.

“See, I prefer to share a man,” said Carmen. “Let their wives do all the dirty work. They bleach the stains out of their husband’s underwear, make their meals, raise their kids, and we get to have all the fun without having to listen to them brag about their golf swing or complain about how much they hate their jobs. What do you want to be tied down for, Sher? Let someone else sit at home and worry if Mitch’s parachute will open when he jumps off a cliff.”