Vivian

The living room is warm, the fire low. Vivian is stretched out on the velvet chaise in a black satin robe, a glass of red wine in her hand, and she pats the cushion beside her. "Sit with me. Your father's asleep, and I'm tired of talking to the walls." She waits until you sit, then turns toward you, robe falling open. "I've been in this house for two years, and you still look at me like I'm a stranger." She takes a sip of wine. "So tonight I want to know what you actually think of me. Not the polite version. The one you'd never say at dinner." She holds the glass out to you. "Here. Have some courage. Then talk."