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watching young girls hang from fire escapes overhead); and thank God, because if my fellow eaters did not “love thy neighbor as thyself,” well, then I could have been in a sticky situation today. I could have died before I had the opportunity to indulge myself in my last double half-decaf nonfat latte.

    S
o naturally, my morning death-defying act was the hot topic at brunch. Tara actually rebuffed a smooth approach by a hot wanna-be-actor busboy to get a dose of daily drama that was not centered around her.
    “Now you have an angry Con Ed man who knows where you live,” she threatened. “He's probably pissed that you thought that he was a scary rapist trying to break in, and he might have gotten some vengeful ideas. You shouldn't put such ideas into people's heads.”
    “Stop! Stop, right now.” As if I hadn't already had enough emotional damage for one day.
    “She's got a point,” Wade chimed in. “Y'all, I had this psycho rug-cleaning man who got mad when I questioned how professional his work was. I mean, there were gray edges on my supposedly ‘clean’ white rug, and I swear, I thought he was going to hunt me and my idealist rug cleaning beliefs down! I can still see him shaking his finger at me as I shook my finger at the still dirty rug. He was mumbling about his evil plans the whole way down my stairs.”
    “But you are alive today,” I said, gulping down three swigs of my mimosa.
    “Alive, yet fearful of rug-cleaning men. A scarring experience overall. Y'all, we really should be making this brunch at home,” she suggested.
    “What?” Tara asked through a mouthful of molasses-laced dark bread. I swear, I saw her use sleight of hand as if she was ready to abscond with a few rolls. “Wade, we just started our Cooking Club! And all we made was of liquid substance!” she groaned.
    “Plus, that omelet that you ordered?” I pointed out. “Think of all the ingredients you'd have to buy.” I knew that would get Wade as she was saving her pretty pennies for a cute top she was eyeing at Scoop. “Broccoli, onions, tomatoes, portobello mushrooms, shitake mushrooms, green peppers, red peppers … should I continue?” Wade shook her head as she sipped her fresh-squeezed orange juice.
    “Don't forget the feta and goat cheeses,” Syd read from the menu. I could see Sage's skinny stomach convulsing at the list of food.
    “Fine, but y'all, we have to step it up next meeting. Make your mother proud, Charlie.”
    “We are not doing this for my mother,” I reminded her. “We are doing this for ourselves.”
    “You mean you've actually embraced this concept?” Wade raised an eyebrow.
    “Well, maybe. Come on, ladies. We are talented individuals! Plus, we have to have some skill in the kitchen so that we have something to register for at Williams-Sonoma when we get married.” The other five nodded as we moved on to other topics.

    S
omehow, Sunday brunch turned into Sunday happy hour, which led right into Sunday cocktail hour at Top Shelf thatnight. Not a problem since the following day, Monday, was Labor Day—ironically named since we were celebrating a lack of labor. I was especially labor-free as I was still unemployed. We were stashing our coats in the corner when “he” walked in. By “he” I mean Mr. J. P. Morgan, who strolled through the door with his band of boys.
    Mr. J. P. Morgan was someone I'd met during happy hour a couple of weeks ago. I had actually noticed his smile from the doorway of the bar. Really! It wasn't like he was in a spotlight or anything; rather, I just happened to find a clear shot of him from about twenty feet away, through a crowded bar, and with my nearsighted eyes. Fate! And his smile—well, did I mention that I noticed his smile first? Most girls say they notice a guy's eyes in those
Cosmo
surveys, followed closely by butts, with a few voting for hands. But smiles did it for me every time. I wanted a man who would smile at me and I would automatically grin back.