She was still hugging the cat. "Poor slob," she said, tickling his head, "poor slobwithout a name. Its a little inconvenient, his not having a name. But I havent anyright to give him one: hell have to wait until he belongs to somebody. We just sortof took up by the river one day, we dont belong to each other: hes an independent,and so am I. I dont want to own anything until I know Ive found the place whereme and things belong together. Im not quite sure where that is just yet. But I knowwhat its like." She smiled, and let the cat drop to the floor. "Its like Tiffanys," shesaid. "Not that I give a hoot about jewelry. Diamonds, yes. But its tacky to weardiamonds before youre forty; and even thats risky. They only look right on thereally old girls. Maria Ouspenskaya. Wrinkles and bones, white hair and diamonds: Icant wait. But thats not why Im mad about Tiffanys. Listen. You know those dayswhen youve got the mean reds?"

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