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like articles.” His voice grew suddenly lower, more confident, like he was telling me that he could sell the movie rights to my as-yet-unwritten novel for five bazillion dollars.
    “That’s nice, Dennis. But the things I’m writing now really are articles.”
    That stopped him cold. There’s something about a lousy salary. It makes you passionate to defend your career choice (since you’re obviously not in it for the money). It also makes you snotty and mean.
    “Forget it, then,” he said, hunching over and pulling at the blouse. “I didn’t mean to push.”
    “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so . . .”
    “Superior?” He was holding his lips tight, standing his ground. It was my turn to blush.
    “I was going to say defensive, but maybe that’s how it sounded.” I scanned the room for Marcy. Where the hell was she? “I’m stressed by my new position, is all. It seems important—it is important—but it’s taking a lot out of me to get up to speed, and I guess it’s making me testy.” I didn’t say that the best part about my job was that Richard had not yet thought to sell ads to Seeing Eye dog trainers.
    Dennis laughed and then—God help me—beamed. “I’m glad you feel comfortable telling me the truth. So tell me this. Will you go shopping with me this weekend?”
    He caught me before I’d had a chance to come up with an excuse. “I’d love to.”
    He smiled, showing me his little teeth once again. “Guess we’ve had our first fight.”

four
    My new scarf really did look good with my black shirt and skirt. It looked so good, in fact, that when the weatherman declared Thursday “a scorcher,” I wore it anyway, telling myself that I’d be traveling from air-conditioned place to air-conditioned place. For lunch, I’d chosen a bright, airy restaurant that featured potted palms, crisp white tablecloths and California cuisine. By the time I got there, I had completely sweated off my makeup, and my hair, which I’d actually taken time to style, was limp. The scarf stuck to my neck. Had I been meeting anyone else, I would have peeled it off. At least it would help catch the perspiration droplets from behind my ears.
    As I’d hoped, Tim had gotten there first (I was intentionally five minutes late). Either because he forgot how much I detest the heat (he never really cared for me, never paid attention) or because he wanted me to be miserable (heartless bastard), he had chosen a table outside. “The ones with the umbrellas were all taken,” he said, standing up as I approached.
    “Not a problem,” I said, diffusing any memories he may have had of me as a whiner. My heart was pounding. We hugged and kissed in a superficial, “Darling, it’s fabulous to see you” kind of way. For the quickest moment, I thought I could pull it off—I could convince myself (and him) that bygones were bygones. But when our lips touched, I was horrified to recognize his smell and his taste. At least I never bothered spending time and money in therapy; all my work would have been undone in that brief moment. I knew I was blushing and was almost glad to have the heat as an excuse.
    We sat down and I examined him as closely as I could without actually staring. He looked pretty much the same, I was disappointed to see. I’d kind of hoped for a softening middle or at least some grim lines around his mouth, resulting from his newfound unhappiness. But there he was: same wiry build, alert gray eyes, bony hands. The glasses were new, black-rimmed and rectangular. They made him seem artsy. “What happened to your contacts?” I asked. In college, he used to say that only the poor kids wore glasses. He traded in his aviator shades three months after graduation.
    He shrugged. “I never really got used to sticking myself in the eye.”
    The waitress—a vacant-eyed, streaky-haired, nubile type in a khaki skirt that was too short to be tasteful—asked what we’d like to drink. I hoped Tim would order first