“Just as I thought. Well, today you begin. You’re taking the first train into
New York and you’re spending the day finding out what life’s really about.”  As she turned to get her fur coat from the closet, she suddenly turned quickly back towards the mirror.  “And don’t thin this means a matinee and a cocktail!” Marion warned the woman in the mirror.
At the train station she bought a copy of MS magazine, looked the attendant right in the eye and said: “And I’ll take a copy of Playgirl too.” Marion felt, perhaps for the first time since she wrote a letter to the editor condemning Senator McCarthy and the House Un-American Activities Committee, the blood rush through her veins.  
The ten twelve from Port Jervis might as well have been the Orient Express. Marion was on her way and nothing and no one could stop her.  She passed the first few minutes sizing up the other passengers.  
“That one,” she thought, “could be headed for some secret rendezvous.  That one, the middle aged woman wearing the jewel colored turban and the Persian lamb coat, is going to meet her husband for lunch and perhaps a cocktail or two at the Palm Court.  The frail young girl in the faded jeans, probably an anti-nuclear protester or no, better yet, a poet, the next Edna St. Vincent Millay.”
She stared to concentrate on the young man in the tight jeans and sexy profile. She thought of Alan.