You moved north to get away from all that. The cameras blinding you as soon as you stepped from the car. The fans fluttering past your table at dinner to ask for just one autograph. The interminable cocktail parties.

Still, you miss it sometimes.

Forty years later, you sweep your hair up the way Audrey Hepburn used to and put on your lipstick and sunglasses for an outing to Burger King. You sit beside your husband, who is still handsome despite the grey in his hair and the tremor in his hands. Then, just for old time’s sake you smile your best come-hither at the teenage boy sauntering by.

Wonderfully, he stops.

“Are you famous?” he asks.

From the corner of your eye, you can see his friends elbowing each other. You ignore them.

“If you signed, like, one of my socks, could I sell it for tons of money on E-Bay?”

You know it’s a joke to him, a joke to all of them. You pull a napkin toward you nonetheless, dig a pen from your clutch purse, and sign with a flourish.

“You go ahead and sell it on your E-Bay,” you say. Though intended as coquettish, it sounds slightly crotchety. You make up for this with another smile. Then you take your clutch in one hand and your shaky husband in the other and you sashay out of there in your high heeled sandals.