I saw Sarah one last time. The new swimsuits had just been put out, and we were sliding our bodies in and out of stretchy fabric quite separately in identical little rooms of the same store where we had tried them on together that summer. I heard her say she was headed for a week stretched flat on the sand in St. Thomas, and I knew right off who the voice came out of. We looked full at each other without a word, pretending coolness so well that not even a pink flush of surprise showed on either face. She had a brown one-piece on the hanger. I walked myself into another store and bought the most drop dead bikini I could lay my hands on. I’ve never worn it. Not even in my bedroom in front of the mirror all alone. Not even for Sam. But remembering it folded away in my third drawer gives me a good rough edge when I have to play the scarlet woman. They were married two years when Sam left.