by Elizabeth Winder
1955. It’s springtime in New York and unseasonably balmy. Cherry blossoms dot Central Park with pale pink, and “Melody of Love” drifts from the radio. The Pajama Game is on Broadway, Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis are on Fridays at the Copa, and Truman Capote is dancing with Marilyn Monroe. Twirling to the El Morocco’s in house Cuban band, they samba and smile and swill strong martinis. Truman sweating in his pinstriped suit and glasses, Marilyn barefoot in her simple black slip, they are two cherubic little towheads, glittering with unfettered joy.
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