LITMIR.BIZ

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Very cute. At least you can still joke about it.”

      “I don’t want to be a sad singleton,” I sigh.

      “Better a sad singleton than a happy breeder.”

      “Enough with the Camille Paglia. Tomorrow you’ll be begging Professor Bales for a booty call.”

      “Yeah? Well the day after tomorrow you’ll be back at work.”

      “Oh, that was cruel.” I clutch at my heart. “So, so cruel.”

      She shrugs. What can she say? I’m trapped and we both know it.

      We sip warm beer from sticky cups for the rest of the afternoon.

      “So?”

      George is demanding an answer. It’s Sunday, the last day of my “vacation.”

      “Well, as you know, I’ve been doing some thinking….”

      “Mmmm. Come up with anything since yesterday?”

      “Well, I can admit you were right about the whole factory idea. I wouldn’t want Cole to be my boss, and he’d probably just make fun of me all day long and I’d end up pushing him into some sort of giant turbine or whatever they have there and that wouldn’t really be fair to Olivia or the kids.”

      “Obviously not.”

      “So I guess I’m still sort of mulling things over. Trying to see the big picture…”

      “And?”

      “These things take time, George. There’s no telling when my epiphany might come. Could be tomorrow. Could be next month. Could be next year.”

      “Could be never.”

      “You can’t force it.”

      “Enough’s enough, already, Holly. I’m coming over.”

      “Knock yourself out. But I’m warning you—I’m profoundly depressed, and in no mood for company.”

      “Whatever,” she says, and hangs up.

      I am, of course, feeling fine. Things are much better now that I’ve had a full week to catch up on The Young and the Restless. Something about having a peek at the problems of others—especially the rich and fictional—always makes my concerns seem almost trivial. Who cares if a single Burberry scarf is enough to throw me into debt for six months? I have a job and a roof over my head. Does it really matter that my cup size is an A while my grades were always Cs, instead of the other way around? I can’t change the past, but one day I might get the boobs I’ve always wanted. And so what if I don’t have a boyfriend? At least I’ll be spared the pain of him cheating on me with my devious stepmother and then developing amnesia after being thrown overboard from his twin brother’s private yacht while fleeing to the Cayman Islands to escape some dark secret of his nefarious past. Plus, I don’t have to worry about anyone leaving the toilet seat up.

      By the time George shows up it’s after eight and I’m starving. Not only is George incredibly slow-moving to begin with, but she still lives at home with her mothers out in Williamsville, so for her to shlep her ass into the city by bus takes forever. I’ve been on her case for years to get her own place, but with her salary, she’d need at least two roommates to make it work.

      “Sorry,” she says when she finally arrives. “There was an accident on the Kensington.”

      “You at least need to get a car if you’re going to live out there.”

      “I know, I know. But then I’d have to get my driver’s license, too.”

      Even though George claims to still be full from too much birthday cake and hot dog buns the day before, we order an extralarge pizza and wait for it to arrive.

      “How’s Jill?” George asked. “I never see her anymore. Where is she?”

      “Oh, she’s pretty much always out.”

      “That’s good for you. It’s like having the place to yourself.”

      “I guess.” Truth is, I’d rather have someone around to talk to. “She’ll probably be home soon. I think she does an underwater bicycling class on Wednesday nights. Or is it Pilates in a steam room? Something like that.”

      “Does she stay at whatsisname’s a lot?”

      “No. He usually stays here. I doubt if he even has a fixed address. He’s such a weirdo. I caught him going through the Dumpster out back yesterday.”

      “What? Why?”

      “He said he threw out some important paperwork by accident or something. Not that he has a job, so I have no idea what he was even talking about.”

      “Yikes.”

      “Yeah, plus I’m pretty sure I saw him on America’s Most Wanted.”

      George’s big green eyes widen in horror. “Tell me you’re joking.”

      “Well, the actor sure looked an awful lot like him.”

      “Who are they looking for? What did he do?”

      “Some guy from Wisconsin who disappeared from a halfway house about six months ago. He apparently slips in and out of a violent state without knowing it, and he’s already responsible for three murders in the Midwest—”

      “No!”

      “Yes. But the really creepy part is that all of his victims look exactly like his mother—”

      “Get out!”

      “Yeah, and first he stalks them and then he lures them into this creepy van and then he—”

      We both jump as we hear the key in the door.

      “God! Oh my God!” George whispers frantically.

      But it’s just Jill.

      “Is this pizza boy yours?” she asks. “I found him in the lobby.”

      “Yup!” I say, jumping up to get my wallet.

      “Hi Jill,” George says as I pay for dinner. The pizza boy ignores my attempt at a flirty smile and I consider taking part of his tip back.

      “Hey,” Jill answers, tucking a blondish strand behind her ear. “Long time no see.”

      “I brought a movie over, if you want to watch with us.”

      “Thanks, but I’m exhausted. I’m going to try and go to bed early. Don’t let Holly stay up too late, ’kay?”

      “I won’t,” George said. “She has a big day of doing nothing tomorrow.”

      “I hear you!” I yell from the kitchen.

      “Yeah, well, get a life!” Jill yells back. “I’m not complaining,” she continues to George. “Holly’s been doing a lot of things around the house.”

      Since Saturday, I’ve reorganized the pantry, installed three new coat hooks in the hallway, laminated a list of emergency phone numbers to put on the fridge and found time to watch at least six hours of TV every day. All in all, time well spent.

      After Jill watches us eat (she grabbed a sprout sandwich earlier), she retreats to her bedroom to talk on the phone. Boyfriend, apparently, is away on “business,” and missing her terribly.

      “Well at least she has someone to make her happy,” I conclude sadly after we’ve torn apart his many flaws as quietly as we could.

      “That’s no excuse,” George says. “She can do better.”

      “Do you have a pash on her or something?”

      “What’s that?”

      “A girl crush.”

      “Oh,”

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