Where the Hell is Cassandra? seethed Jonathan as he paced his Park Avenue Penthouse. We cannot be late to this party! They had to be there. Whether or not he actually wanted to be there was an entirely different question. (Although Jonathan had no desire to go, he hated being late for things. If he had to go, he reasoned, they might as well be punctual). If it were up to him, hed be in his Ralph Lauren pajamas by now, and Cassandra would be in her Nick & Nora leopard print pajamas. Theyd be eating Chinese food and watching reruns of Fraiser. Fraiser is one of the only sitcoms they watch, when they have time, which lately has been very rare. The dreaded gallery opening has been a tradition for as long as he could remember. It seems like another one of Cassandras artist friends is unveiling his or her new collection every two months. The party was supposed to start at 9:00. It was now 6:00, according to his Cartier. If Cassandra wasnt home, Jonathan was assuming she was still at work. She wasnt supposed to be at work. She was supposed to be home, having dinner with him and then getting ready for some stupid gallery benefit that he didnt even want to go to in the first place! But he had to, even though he thought modern art was some of the most boring and confusing stuff. In his opinion, the only period this type of art went through was the What Are You On? period. He knew what types of things the museum would try to pass off as art: upside-down urinals and other weird pieces of crap. And because he was Cassandras husband, it would be weird if he didnt show up as well. Her friends, through the work of some unknown spies for all he knew, found out he didnt have plans that night. They were expecting him there. Realizing he had been pacing since 5:30, Jonathan decided he had better stop before he wore a hole in their shag carpeting, the shag carpeting he bought the last time he felt like buying something. In fact, half of everything in their apartment was purchased because he felt like buying something. The other half was when Cassandra felt like buying something. After all, when youre practically the best architect in the city and youre wifes a famous fashion photographer; you can afford to just buy something whenever the Hell you felt like it. While he liked spending money, he wasnt wasteful. He stopped pacing and decided to take a bath. His bathroom was his pride and joy. The entire thing was done in glass and imported black marble. (Cassandras was in cream marble). While he was waiting for his tub to finish filling, he decided to shave. He has had his moustache ever since he was sixteen years old. That night, he decided to shave it off. Its almost a New Year and he needed a new look. While he thought it would be such a big ritual, it wasnt really that big a deal. A couple flicks of the razor and a fourteen-year-old moustache was gone. He was clean-shaven again. The tub was almost full, now, so he dried his chin off, stepped out of his navy blue Ralph Lauren robe and slid himself into the tub. Fifteen minutes later, he stepped out of the tub, let the water drain out and dried himself off. He was just finishing tying the tie of his Prada tuxedo when he heard Cassandra burst through the door, throw her things down and stomp down the front hall. Son of a *****! My day SUCKED! Ten whole hours of anorexic, cokehead, permanently pissed-off looking *****es in five gazillion dollar gowns in the middle of the desert! You know I couldnt even eat my lunch in front of one of the models, because she was such a veggie loving, all natural hippie freak that she couldnt bear to see me eat one of Gods creatures?!? I had to eat my chicken salad sandwich later on the plane before she boarded! All natural, my ass! She may be a vegetarian, but her dietary intake is NOT all natural all the time. The only way for THAT to happen is if she made absolutely sure her heroin was made from organically grown poppies! I am a photographer, for Gods sake! I shouldnt have to be jumping through some damn hoops just to make a bunch of models happy! If anything, they should be the ones jumping through hoops for me! I have won many awards for Photography! Why the HELL am I still working with these damned PEONS!?! Cassandra punctuated the words Hell and peons by hurling each of her black Miu Miu snakeskin boots against the wall, one at a time. Ah, my lovely wife is home, Jonathan thought wryly. She figured out where he was and he could now hear her stomping towards his bathroom, her voice getting louder and louder as she got closer. Jonathan! I had a lousy *****y day, and I want a damned Bombay Sapphire! Now! Coming, Princess, he muttered under his breath while heading towards the bar in the living room. (The bar was one of Cassandras just because purchases. It was a fully stocked bar, complete with barstools, all in matching chrome, and fully stocked with top-of-the-line liquors. Jonathan's equivalent to Cassandras bar was a fully stocked wine cellar and cigar humidor). Heading from his bathroom to the living room, he could see the remains of Cassandras wrath. Her black Louis Vuitton Monogram Multicolore, along with her black Christian Dior leather jacket lay on a heap near the front door. Her boots were on opposite sides of the room, and he could make out black marks where she had hurled them against the wall. The only things she had bothered to regard as fragile, he noticed, was her camera equipment bag. That she had set gingerly on the floor next to the black leather couch. Gingerly placed next to the camera bag were two little shopping bags, both were robins egg blue with Tiffany & Co. printed on the side. Shes done a little shopping therapy, he noted. Take two bags of diamonds from Tiffanys and call me in the morning.