fifty-shades-of-grey

eautiful face, a beautiful face that could be staring at Mrs. Damned Robinson right now. Isave the picture in my favorites and click through all eighteen screens… nothing. I won’tfind Mrs. Robinson on Google. But I have to know if he’s with her. I type a quick emailto Christian.From: Anastasia SteeleSubject: Suitable Dinner CompanionsDate: May 31 2011 23:58 ESTTo: Christian GreyI hope you and your friend had a very pleasant dinner.AnaPS Was it Mrs. Robinson?I press send and climb despondently back into bed, resolving to ask Christian about his relationshipwith that woman. Part of me is desperate to know more, and another part wantsto forget he ever told me. And my period has started, so I must remember to take my pillin the morning. I quickly program an alarm into the calendar on my BlackBerry. Settingit aside on the bedside table, I lie down and eventually drift into an uneasy sleep, wishingthat we were in the same city, not two and half thousand miles apart.After a morning of shopping and an afternoon back at the beach, my mother has decreedwe should spend the evening in a bar. Abandoning Bob to the TV, we find ourselves in theup-market bar of Savannah’s most exclusive hotel. I am on my second Cosmopolitan. Mymother is on her third. She is offering more insights into the fragile male ego. It’s verydisconcerting.“You see, Ana, men think that anything that comes out of a woman’s mouth is a problemto be solved. Not some vague idea that we’d like to kick around and talk about for awhile and then forget. Men prefer action.”“Mom, why are telling me this?” I ask, failing to hide my exasperation. She’s beenlike this all day.“Darling, you sound so lost. You’ve never brought a boy home. You never even had aboyfriend when we were in Vegas. I thought something might develop with that guy youmet in college, José.”“Mom, José’s just a friend.”“I know, sweetheart. But something’s up, and I don’t think you’re telling me everything.”She gazes at me, her face etched with motherly concern.