It's impossible to talk about Jennifer any further without noting that there are actually two distinct Jennifers, both born the same day in the same place to the same parents, entirely co-extensive, but one married to a wealthy banker with a penchant for sleazy parties and a trio of conspicuously lavish residences and the the other single for a while, nursing wounds and doubts and then married to a galumphing Irish poet whose hangdog expression concealed a wry sense of humor and a warm heart. The second husband called her “love” and meant it. The first wanted her always out of her clothes and meant it too. The first Jennifer was the tawdrier option (complete with extra flourishes like a drug problem and a short-lived affair with her husband’s female secretary, carried out right under his nose and never suspected), while the second was more measured and accomplished, even beginning to play the piano again for the first time since her teens. Both versions certainly have a right to exist and are preserved in shockingly pristine condition in the memory of the seventy-six-year old Jennifer, who has just been to the doctor and been given bad news.
©2021 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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