But that wasn’t all. He’d dyed his three remaining strands of hair jet black. And as the pièce de résistance, he’d started to grow a mustache. Of course, after only a week, it was just stubble. But this, too, had been dyed black. So it looked like a smudge of charcoal on his upper lip.

A ripple of disapproval followed as he and Goldie headed for the two seats next to mine.

Now, I thought he looked ridiculous. And the ladies thought he looked ridiculous. But clearly Goldie Marcus did not share our opinion. She strutted across the room with her arm hooked in his, shooting him sexy come-hither smiles en route.

Mr. Goldman pulled out a chair for her with a flourish. This from a man who’d been known to shove aside women in walkers to get first in line for the Belgian waffles at Sunday brunch.

“Look at him,” I heard Mrs. Pechter mutter. “Sir Galahad.”

The other ladies giggled.

Mr. Goldman glared at them, then turned to his lady love and beamed.

“Wanna kiss, doll?”

“You bet, Abie.”

And with that, Mr. Goldman took out a Hershey’s Kiss from his pocket and peeled off the foil. Then he popped it into Goldie’s open mouth.

“Feh.” Mrs. Pechter rolled her eyes in disgust.

“Don’t mind Pechter,” Mr. Goldman said to Goldie. “She’s got no manners.”

“Look who’s talking,” Mrs. Pechter said. “You’re the one who uses your dentures as a bookmark.”

“I only did that once!” Mr. Goldman protested. “Or twice.”

“Okay, class,” I said, sensing hostilities mounting. “Who wants to read first?”

“Me!” Goldie said, her hand shooting up in the air, cubic zirconia rings flashing.

“Go right ahead, Goldie.” I smiled what I hoped was an encouraging smile.

She reached into her leopard-skin tote bag and pulled out a piece of paper. “I wrote it specially for this class.” She beamed with pride.

“Very good,” I nodded.

She cleared her throat and began to read.

My Favorite Things, Part II, by Goldie Marcus.

Obviously my request to write about a personal experience had fallen on deaf ears.

“What a terrific title!” Mr. Goldman gushed.

“It’s not exactly a memoir,” I said, “but go ahead.”

And so Goldie told us about more of her favorite things, some of which were Turquoise eyeshadow and long false eyelashes and Men with dark hair and sexy mustaches.

Aha. So that’s where Mr. Goldman’s dyed hair and mustache came from.

When Goldie was through plagiarizing The Sound of Music, Mr. Goldman burst into applause.

“Bravo! Bravo! An A-plus! Right, Jaine?”

They both looked at me, eager for praise.

“It’s very nice, Mrs. Marcus. But I’d really like you to try writing about an actual memory. That’s what we do in a memoir-writing class.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Pechter muttered. “You’re supposed to write about memories, not mustaches.”

“Okay,” I said, “who’s next?”