Every couple of months, Shalom hosted an event they called Mambo Mania. Which consisted mainly of elderly ladies dancing with each other (some of them on walkers) to Steve & Eydie singing Besame Mucho. Mr. Goldman always asked me to be his date for this gala affair, and I always said no.

“Sorry, Mr. Goldman, you know I don’t dance.”

“Who cares? We can always sneak out to the parking lot and neck.”

Are you kidding? I’d rather eat this repulsive Puddin’ Cup.

Ignoring his leer, I plastered a bright teachery smile on my face and asked, “Okay, class. Who wants to read first?”

Mr. Goldman’s hand shot up. He always wanted to read first, one of his endless essays in the continuing saga of his life as a carpet salesman.

I looked around the room, desperate for another volunteer. I shot an encouraging look at Mrs. Pechter, a round powder puff of a woman with bosoms as big as throw pillows. But Mrs. Pechter just smiled benignly and popped a caramel in her mouth. I smiled at birdlike Mrs. Rubin, who quickly averted her gaze to her lap. My ladies were always shy at the beginning of class. It took them a while to warm up. I smiled at Mrs. Zahler and Mrs. Greenberg, but they, too, kept their lips zipped.

Finally, I could ignore Mr. Goldman’s flapping hand no longer.

“Go ahead, Mr. Goldman,” I sighed.

And he was off and running. Droning on about the time he sold four rooms of broadloom to Henry Kissinger (who sprang for extra padding, in case you’re interested).

Eyelids began to droop as Mr. Goldman rambled on about the astute foreign policy advice he gave his good buddy “Hank.” Some of the ladies were nodding off. And oh, how I envied them. I, being the teacher, had to force myself to keep my eyelids propped open.

But inevitably, as it always did during one of Mr. Goldman’s recitations, my mind began to wander. I thought about my disastrous meeting at Union National Bank. What a shame. It would’ve been great to land that job. What a welcome break from Ackerman Awnings and Toiletmaster’s Plunge-a-Thon Specials.

And then, of course, there was Andrew Ferguson. Quel doll. I remembered his crooked smile and the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck. I wondered what it would be like to run my fingers through those curls. And before I knew it I was lost in a reverie of me and Andrew in a hot tub drinking champagne and reminiscing over how we first met.

You know, he was telling me, as I ran my fingers through his curls, I took one look at those waist-nipper pantyhose with the cotton crotch and right then and there I knew I had to have you—