Sunday Morning Brunch

The trophy wives gathered for brunch at the usual spot. Those that married pro athletes compared diamonds; artists’ wives compared hardships.

“Oh honey, it’s 11.2 carats, for the first few weeks my finger ached from lifting it.” She looked tired.

“Dinner last night was ramen and curried ketchup, but we’ve finally saved enough for ultramarine!” said a mousy-haired girl.

They all said no thank you to the pastry plate. The athletes’ wives only drank their carbs and the artists’ wives could only afford the chicness of black coffee.

Shelia leaned in to the table and sighed, “I’m lonely and my heart is breaking, this Faustian bargain is erasing my name.”

“Don’t be such a downer, Susan” the tired blond beamed.

There was a lackluster clink of their glasses. They all took another drink.