Frank turned to me, his face a mask of weary impatience, an expression I knew all too well. It was the look he gave me when my very existence had become tiresome to him. “Dorothy, you wouldn’t get it,” he slurred slightly. “It’s a generational thing.”

“Some jokes just don’t translate,” Lisa added, her smile a masterpiece of pity.

A hot flush of embarrassment crept up my neck, but I pushed on. Maybe it was the single glass of wine I’d allowed myself, or maybe it was the cumulative weight of forty-three years of being gently, persistently erased. “Try me,” I said quietly. “I might surprise you.”

That’s when Frank’s hand closed around the stem of his wine glass. The expensive Cabernet I’d chosen for the occasion. His hand was unsteady, a tremor of irritation running through it. He looked at me, his eyes filled with a pure, unadulterated annoyance.