the old man likes his cannoli

K was the kind of woman who preferred to be on the receiving end of hors d'oeuvres. Anyone who has ever catered would understand, was her line. There were many things to admire about her, not least was her staggering array of tops. I rarely have ever owned more than say four shirts at any given time; half her house was a closet. The other half, mirrors.

She was no intellectual, true. A magazine reader. You know, glossy ones with airbrushers instead of editors. The only string theory she was concerned with involved thongs. She identified with television characters. Believed that shopping was something to put on a resume. No qualms, you know? When she was younger, she might have shown her tits for one of those wild girls videos. She'd get drunk at cottages and claim to want to be a porn star.

So she was attractive -- in that replicant hot way -- and managed to skate through life pretty much unscathed. Impeccably shifting tastes. Taking and dropping jobs or guys or convictions, as it suited her. Always got what she wanted so she always wanted more. You know the type. Leggy Gatsbys. The tempting empty. But sharp. Once I asked her if she really thought the world needed a new line of handbags and she just stared at me like I was a grey sneaker. 'That's not the point,' she said.

When I knew her, we both smoked. She had her teeth whitened for the limelight. I kept my lips pressed together whenver i met new people. If cell phones had not been invented, I wonder if she would even have existed at all. Still, she got things done, and she wore high heels while doing them.

Her father was a Judge or a Lobbyist and her mother took pills, played bridge and drank manhattans with her ladyfriends all day. Twice divorced apiece. It was a pedigree for trouble well earned out. K could steal anything, except after a while, everyone just gave it to her anyway. Hard not to admire her. A Machiavelli in Blahniks.