Gloria and I finish dinner at a table in the back of the restaurant. A Parisian-style bistro she frequents on the Upper East Side, it’s close to her home. She can walk there.
We stand up to leave and Gloria leads the way. She’s wearing black pants, a red sweater, a belt around her waist—her classic look, which was never intended to become a classic look. She’s been described before as “cool,” and I took that as a reference to her manner—substantive without being aggressive, self-deprecating and unflappable. Or it could have been a reference to her style. Actually, it’s both.
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