My Life as a Doormat (in Three Acts) Read Online Free PDF Page A

him, but when I noticed he was a few paces in front of me, I decided to head off toward the drinks. I wasn’t even sure he would care. In fact, he would probably be relieved not to have to acknowledge my presence.
    At the drink table I noticed Andrea, the wife of Beau, a former professor at Boston University and now a post-doctoral student at Stanford. She was wearing a red pantsuit. I was never so glad to see red in my life. I thought if we stood next to each other we might look like a Valentine’s Day card, but I didn’t care.
    Andrea noticed me approach. “Hi, Leah. My goodness, that dress is fabulous.”
    I looked down as if it were the last thing on my mind. “You think so?”
    â€œI’ve never seen you wear pink. It’s a good color for you.”
    â€œIt’s not too fancy for this occasion?”
    â€œToo fancy? No way. Did you see Margaret’s sequins?”
    I hadn’t noticed. I was too busy worrying about my own outfit. I glanced up toward the house, and sure enough, there she stood, reflecting light like a disco ball.
    â€œI’m not sure I’ve ever seen you in an actual dress.”
    â€œSure you have.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œAt Professor Jones’s funeral.”
    She thought for a moment. “That’s right. The black number.”
    I nodded and glanced around. I was the only one in pink, but not the only one in color. And I realized I didn’t stand out as much as I’d imagined.
    Andrea was holding two drinks in her hand. “You coming?” She nodded toward the crowd where her husband and Edward were.
    â€œIn a bit.” I smiled and pretended to be interested in what drink I would choose. I strolled alongside the table, listening to the professors talk and laugh and crack jokes most people would never understand.
    From what I could tell, the group was talking about chess, which was no surprise since Dr. Glyndell was a big chess fanatic. Rumor had it that he owned more than a hundred different chessboards (another reason for Edward to look up to him) and that he once claimed to be playing the ghost of his great-grandfather. Somehow, because he could discuss string theory with such casualness, that particular personality flaw (his fondness for ghosts) was dismissed. I once teased with Edward that Dr. Glyndell was one proton away from being Bobby Fischer’s strange half brother. Edward had looked like I’d personally insulted him.
    The slight breeze carried the voices and laughter toward me, and I could hear Edward’s distinguished lilt, the one he used only in the presence of colleagues and students. “Thought that leads nowhere, mathematics that add up to nothing, art without an end product, architecture without substance.” Another professor said, “That’s Zweig from The Royal Game .”
    That’s what they liked to do. Quote and be quoted. Edward had a photographic memory, so he often stunned the crowd by his ability to quote nearly everything he’d read. It was an endearing trait, especially when he quoted my work. Sometimes when we’d be in a heavy discussion about philosophy or religion or something of that nature, he would defend his position by quoting one of my plays. It always made me laugh. How could I argue against myself?
    I ladled myself a glass of what looked like freshly squeezed pink lemonade and decided to walk through the gardens. I wasn’t sure Edward had missed me yet. He didn’t seem to care anyway. Every time I looked his way, I felt myself wanting to cry, and what better place for a pink standout like myself to hide than in the flower gardens?
    I followed a cobbled pathway a few yards out and wandered around, smelling each type of flower and wondering how many groundskeepers were needed to maintain all this. I didn’t have to think long, because soon what appeared to be a groundskeeper came walking toward me.
    â€œHi,” he said. He wore jeans,