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‘You weren’t sain while I was in Montreal, were you?’

‘Not this ti on your nose’

Myrna felt around, found so and examined it ‘Mmm, it’s either chocolate, or skin Only one way to find out’

She popped it in her mouth

‘God’ Clara winced ‘And you wonder why you’re single’

‘I don’t wonder’ Myrna smiled ‘I don’t need a man to complete me’

‘Oh really? What about Raoul?’

‘Ah, Raoul,’ said Myrna dreareed Clara

‘He completed e and generous, like the woman herself

‘Look at this’ A razor voice cut through conversation

Ruth Zardo stood in the center of the bistro holding aloft a chocolate rabbit as though it were a grenade It wasears perky and alert, its face so real Clara half expected it to twitch its delicate candy whiskers In its paws it held a basket woven from white and s, beautifully decorated It was lovely and Clara prayed Ruth wasn’t about to toss it at someone

‘It’s a bunny rabbit,’ snarled the elderly poet

‘I eat them too,’ said Gabri to Myrna ‘It’s a habit A rabbit habit’

Myrna laughed and ilare on her

‘Ruth’ Clara stood up and approached cautiously, holding her husband Peter’s Scotch as enticeo’

It was a sentence she’d never said before

‘It’s a rabbit,’ Ruth repeated as though to slow children ‘So what’s it doing with these?’

She pointed to the eggs