“I take it you weren’t alone,” I said, letting more than a shred of sarcasm seep into my tone. (I disapprove of Abby’s promiscuous ways, you should know, while she thinks I’m a total prude.) “Anybody I know?” I asked. “Or did the model agency send you a brand-new toy?”

“Oh, shut up, Paige! You’re such a prig!”

“I am not. I’m a healthy, passionate, open-minded woman who just happens to believe that the beautiful and intimate act of procreation should be enjoyed with one’s husband, not every Tom, Dick, and Murray in Manhattan.”

“Yeah, well, that’s all fine and good if you’re married,” Abby snorted. She gave me an impish smirk, hoisted one eyebrow to the hilt, then blew a perfect smoke ring in my direction. “And need I remind you, Little Miss Morality, that neither one of us is?”

Her smoke ring hit the crossbreeze and disappeared.

“I’m not the one who needs reminding,” I said with a sniff. “I’m painfully aware of my single-woman status. You, on the other hand, seem to think you’re married to all mankind.”

Abby laughed out loud. “No, I’m a lover of all mankind, you dig? I’m not ready for marriage yet. Who knows if I’ll ever be?” Taking another big gulp of her drink, she eyed me over the rim of her glass. “And I think any woman who waits till she’s hitched to indulge in the pleasures of sex is a dope. Present company included.”

“Oh, yeah?” I said, putting my mental dukes up for round two of our favorite fight. “Well, I think any woman who gets pregnant out of wedlock is an even bigger dope!”

Abby rolled her eyes. “Do you see anybody here who’s pregnant?” she huffed.

“Not yet,” I needled.

“And you never will!” she said, flipping her long braid from one shoulder to the other. “I’m no dope, you dig? I’ve got a diaphragm, and I know how to use it.”

(I had a diaphragm, too, I should tell you-courtesy of the Margaret Sanger Clinic on 16th Street.