...Emily had not yet put on her dress but was already on her second pair of pantyhose, having discovered a run in the first. The dress, still protected by the dry cleaners clear plastic bag, hung from a hook on the closet door. As she walked toward it, she felt a squishy soft dollop beneath her foot and lifted it to reveal a foam rubber plug like the ones she had stuffed into her ears last night when Waylon began to snore. Or it could have been Bo Diddley. In any case, covering her head with a pillow had brought no relief, and without switching on the light, she had rummaged in the bedside-table drawer. There were about eight in the little bag, and in her semi dormant state, she must have fumbled one onto the floor.
A few minutes later, she finished and then studied her reflection in the full-length mirror. Even though this shimmering, cranberry-colored shift was, in fact, her favorite dress and one she had had for years, she wore it only in December. She took up coat, scarf, and small evening purse and moved to the living room, where she turned off the overhead, leaving the room in darkness save for the tree lights, and waited to the strains of Respighis Laud to the Nativity....
