“More than you’re probably willing to tell me.”
“I’m an open book,” Stone said, “but I’d rather talk to eyes than shades.”
She took them off, revealing large green eyes, a little red around the rims, no makeup.
“Late night?”
“Swine,” she said equably. “I reveal myself, and you point out my weaknesses.”
“I don’t see any weaknesses.”
“Good. Now, you were going to tell me about yourself.”
Stone gave her the sixty-second version of his biography. “Now,” he said, “who you?”
“Me Jane,” she said.
“Who Tarzan?”
“No Tarzan, just me.”
“Good news.”
“I’m glad you think so. Who your Jane?”
“She took a hike last week.”
“You all broken up?”
“No, just mystified.”
She laughed. “I’ll bet she told you exactly why she was dumping you.”
He shrugged. “You’re right, she did, and she was specific.”
“Not enough of a commitment?”
“Something like that; how’d you guess?”
“Attractive men your age who’ve never been married nearly always come up short in the commitment department.”
“You were telling me about you,” Stone said.
“In sixty seconds or less, like you?”
“If you like.”
“ Virginia girl from old Virginia family, Virginia schools, etcetera, etcetera.”
“You’ve got fifty-five seconds left.”
“Came to New York to be an actress, didn’t like the process, wrote about it, wrote other stuff, still writing.”
“Fiction or non?”
“Non, although there’s half a novel somewhere in my computer.”
Something rang a bell. “Did you once write a piece for The New Yorker about being an actress in New York?”