A 40-something single woman with dramatic cat-eye glasses and a fraying silk scarf, reclining in a velvet armchair, eyes closed in rapture while clutching a copy of The New Yorker to her chest like itâs a bodice-ripper romance novel, lipstick smudged, glass of red wine dangerously tilting in her hand, stacks of unread Booker Prize novels forming a shrine around her, background lit like a Renaissance painting with candles and a faded MFA diploma framed crookedly on the wall. Her expression is somewhere between orgasm and intellectual smugness. See more