“You certainly can!” JJ replies and leans back in his chair. He can’t remember the last time he had a hard-on that mattered and was taken care of by something other than his right hand. He feels a small bump on his crotch beginning to rise like a lump of homemade bread dough in a warm bowl.

He has narrowed his choices and needs to make a decision. He seizes the moment. “If you’ll excuse me, I was hoping to use the men’s room.” JJ scurries away before his pants embarrass him.

But JJ doesn’t go to the bathroom. Instead he stands in the shadows of the lounge. He knows one thing. He knows that once he has stepped away, the members of the Rich Widows’ Club will show their real selves. He stands where he can hear them, but where he knows that they can’t see him. He tucks his right fist under his chin, a vertical posing of The Thinker. He waits for the show to unfold.

Panem et circenses, he thinks. He’d forgotten that phrase from his Latin classes until it popped back into his head a moment ago. It seems oddly appropriate for the moment: bread and circuses—that’s all one needs to rule the world. He smiles wryly as he watches Prima seat herself in JJ’s empty chair and lean in toward Quarta. Clearly, she has done her calculations and has chosen to re-enter the race.

“What in fuck do you think you are doing?” he sees her sneer. “You cannot be his winter travel companion! You can’t. You don’t have enough money to be with a guy like him. You do realize he expects you to buy your own travel insurance?”

“And not only that,” adds Tertia, “he wants a woman with good hips!”

“And no previous dead husbands!” blurts Secunda. “What is it with this guy?”

“Yeah,” moans Quinta. “What is it with all guys?”

Prima pushes her forked tongue to the roof of her mouth, front teeth showing. The small hiss begins. Her neck starts to flare. Her hood is slowly beginning to fill.

“We are the ones who have taught you not to shop in shopping malls!” Prima reminds Quarta. “You have a purpose in this group. Your purpose is to be our ethnic content, and you’ve done that very well. We’ve kept your brown skin and eyes around so we don’t appear racist. It’s politically responsible and now . . . look at you, thinking that you’re somebody. Know your place!”

Quarta leans back and breaks into a chilling laugh. “You old patqut! Is that your forked tongue edging to the front of your mouth? Aren’t forked tongues something that only Native people have?” Her laughter makes her cellulite tap dance up and down her big belly, causing her breasts to shake like polka dots spinning out of control on cheap fabric.