Excerpt from Tuesday Nights in 1980 by Molly Prentiss, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Meet my wife!" he shouted proudly to Winona, a little too loudly he knew, for he always had trouble gauging the appropriate decimal at which to speak at parties. "And our kid!" He said while stroking Marge's barely noticeable stomach through her dress. "Meet our kid! We're just telling people."

"Oh how lovely," said Winona, with pursed purple lips. She had the kind of hair that was popular that year, a curtain revealing only the first act of her face: a queenly nose, confusingly colored eyes (were they violet?), cheekbones for days. "And how far along are you?"

"Sixteen weeks today," Marge said. And James loved the way she said it—already living with a new mother's understanding of time, where weeks were the only measurement of time that counted—with red beams coming out of her eyes like pretty lasers.

"Well congratulations to you two," Winona said. "You're very lucky, and your child will be, too! From what I can tell—and I am the littlest bit clairvoyant, you know—you're going to make wonderful parents. And do we think we'll get an artist?"

"I won't wish it on him," Marge said with a laugh. "Well, him or her."

Winona laughed falsely and touched Marge's shoulder. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "I almost forgot. The tradition is that I tell you the scoop on whatever artwork you're standing in front of, and then that's your painting for the year. Well not your painting—I'm not going to give it to you!—but sort of like your spirit painting, do you know what I mean? You hold it with you through the year. You darlings have the Frank Stella. And you see, Stella did everything backward. He started abstract when no one was being abstract! And then once everyone started going abstract, he got lush and moody and majestic. So there's your token of Winona wisdom for 1980: Be backward! Go against the tide! Do things the wrong way!" She laughed like a pretty horse.

"Won't be hard for me," James said with an awkward chuckle. He thought of how he had gotten here or anywhere: he had only ever done anything wrong, and it was only by chance that it turned into anything right.

"Oh, you shut your mouth now!" Winona practically screamed.

"Your name is on the very edge of everyone's lips! Your articles are on the very first page of the arts section! Your brain is, well, I don't know what the hell your brain is, but it sure is something. And your collection! Lord knows I've wanted to get my paws on that since I was covered in placenta! You're on fire, James. And you know it."

James and Marge laughed for Winona until she got pulled away by a woman in a very puffy white dress. "It's almost time for the countdown!" the woman squealed. Winona looked back toward James and Marge and said over her shoulder: "Get ready for the first Tuesday of the year!" And then to her puffy friend: "I've always found Tuesdays so charming, haven't you? I do everything on Tuesdays"—her voice trailing away—"I take my shower on Tuesdays; I have my shows on Tuesdays . . . how fortuitous that the first day of the decade will fall . . ." Her monologue was out of range now, and she ducked back under the surface of the party as if it were a lake. In the relative quiet of her wake, James found a little bracket of time to delve into his Running List of Worries.

On James's Running List of Worries: baby food, and would it smell bad?; the Claes Oldenburg in Winona's fireplace (Was it being given enough space to breathe? Because it was making his throat close up a little bit); the wrinkle, shaped like a witch's nose, on the cuff of his pant leg, despite Marge's diligent ironing; his suit itself (Was white out?); would his child, if she were a girl, shove a man against the library stacks and kiss him like Marge had done to him, and at such a young age?; would his child, if he were a boy, have a small penis?; did he have a small penis?; and what had Winona just said a moment ago? You're on fire, James. But what would happen if his fire burned out?

Excerpted from Tuesday Nights in 1980 by Molly Prentiss. Copyright © 2016 by Molly Prentiss. Excerpted by permission of Gallery Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.