Adair is in Nebraska. Not such a bad place, at all. Certainly not boring. Nebraska is a happening place; happening in Andy Warhol’s sense of the word. Too.
Ghislaine is, supposedly, in Britain. Or England. Or is it the Maldives. Sunset Strip. Or the Mediterranean, storm-tossed, Miorca, tax haven, or Little Saint James. Tax haven.
Ghislaine loves herself a good accountant. A good account. A good account of being on a deluxe yacht, absolutely unaffordable, and unboardable, except by the pure of heart, who are youngsters– very young, youngsters. Alteratively, by the sicko sticko rich, rich, rich, who are, in every religion of the world and world history, evil, at any age.
(The recently evolved “prosperity gospel” of Xtrianity, excepted.)
Networking, making connections, collaborating, even connective, a connective tissue, collecting, yet not in collectivism, cooperating, yet not in a cooperative, wildly celebrating pink, as long as it is not pinko. The term, “network”, dating back to TV? Not radio, so it must be TV. Not morse code, so it must be TV. Echoing through a heartfelt wire? So it must be TV.
Ghislaine sees Adair.
Adair is not naked, nor without resource, or recourse, (she never flunked a test, or a grade) though she must, perchance, spend this night, and probably others, in Grand Central Station. (Or intercourse.) From Ghislaine’s point of view, Adair is vulnerable. You don’t spend time in Grand Central Station unless you have no other choice.
Spam of Human Affection 
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