I’m waiting for Monica downstairs on the couch next to Tommy downstairs while she puts the finishing touches on herself for tonight. My son and I are watching the Giants getting trounced by the Cowboys, and he’s peppering me with a million questions. “What’s ‘offsides,’ Padre? What’s ‘clipping?’ Why do they call it a two-minute warning, Padre?” I’m halfway through telling him what an illegal block is when Monica comes down the stairs. When I look up, my breath runs away. It’s the first time I’ve seen her dressed to the nines, as they used to say—or do they say it now? I can’t remember, and it doesn’t matter.
The dress she’s poured into is a one-piece sleeveless ruby-red number with a plunging V-neckline. Her heels are red and spiked, bringing her eye-level with me, and a band of twisted g
