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with morning wood.”
     
    “Excuse me?”
     
    “Huh?” The spell is broken. I shake my head. “Oh. Sorry. It’s an expression.”
     
    “An expression?” he says. “Is it popular with beautiful American women?”
     
    “Yes, staggeringly popular,” I say, rolling my eyes.
     
    “I’m Georges,” he says, producing a business card from thin air. I study the card because I’m curious about the spelling of his name. Because he pronounced it Zorzay , if you can just imagine! Georges reminds me of a pretentious waiter friend of mine named Ralph, who calls himself Ricardo. One evening, on a lark, Ralph said, he adopted the foreign name, affected the accent, and doubled his tips.
     
    “Fifteen-fifty,” Georges says. Then sighs. “Outrageous, yes?”
     
    “Insane,” I say.
     
    “But made for one such as you, I think.”
     
    I study the bag without touching it, tell Georges I’ll have to think about it. Then I head straight to the jewelry department, while exorcising all thoughts of luxury handbags from my mind.
     
    Until I find myself back in shoes and handbags, minutes after purchasing Sophie’s bracelet.
     
    I have to see it one more time.
     
    But I can’t find the Gucci.
     
    I look around and see my young, foreign salesman carrying it toward the shoe section, where a stunningly attractive lady in her mid-forties is holding up a pair of Gucci sandals. The two were made for each other, meaning the purse and sandals, and I mean to have them both. It’s simple really. All I have to do is change my perspective. If I think of the handbag as an extravagant accessory, I’m toast. Because Georges is absolutely right, it’s outrageous. But if I think of the handbag as a mood-enhancer, it could be considered therapy. In other words, it would make me happy.
     
    No, more than that. It would thrill me to own this handbag!
     
    I’ve been years without a shrink. But if I decide to jump back into therapy, only a few sessions would cost more than this handbag. I know people who’ve been in therapy for many years and are still unhappy. I do the math in my head and realize how lucky I am to have found a handbag that can save me years of therapy.
     
    I start following Georges at a fast clip. Just as I’m about to overtake him, he says to the woman, “If you like to touch teenage boys with morning wood, you will love to touch this!”
     
    I abruptly turn and make tracks for the exit.
     

SOPHIE’S PUZZLED TO hear I’m changing Tuesday lunch at The Hermitage to Monday dinner at Allez Vous.
    “That’s too extravagant,” she says.
     
    “I struck it rich. Really. You even get a gift!”
     
    “You’re overcompensating for something.”
     
    “You’re my best friend,” I say. “You spend tons of money on me. It’s the least I can do.”
     
    “Lunch is the least you can do. This is something else.”
     
    She thinks a minute.
     
    “You’re leaving Tuesday,” she says.
     
    “Damn, you’re good.”
     
    “I am good. Don’t forget it.”
     
    “Sorry. About leaving early.”
     
    “Hey, it’s okay. You’ve got a life.” She pauses, then adds, “A very complicated one.”
     
    “Tell me about it!”
     
    “What time are you leaving Tuesday?”
     
    “Early afternoon.”
     
    “So we can still do a casual lunch, and save you some money.”
     
    “Unacceptable. I’ve got money burning a hole in my wallet, and I need to spend it on something meaningful. Otherwise I’ll end up wasting it on something sensible.”
     
    She laughs. “You’re a nut.”
     
    “See you Monday.”
     
    We end the call and I open the door of the closet where I keep my evening wear. I start laying outfits on my bed, trying to decide which one will “speak” to a thirty-five-year-old venture capitalist who’s engaged to a wealthy, thirty-year-old woman.
     
    You might think it’s just a matter of looking hot, and for most guys, that’s probably true. But Joe Fagin’s a good-looking guy about to marry