LITMIR.BIZ

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together.” Yes, he loves the game.

      “Oh, Lena, do you know if I left my cell phone at your apartment the other night?” Jake couldn’t help smirking as Miranda visibly bristled. I half expected her perfect little head to spin off of her perfect little body.

      “Oh, Jake, you’re so funny,” I started to say, but a piercing noise erupted from the speaker that was, apparently, faced directly at us. So that’s why the table was free.

      “Maybe we should move,” I mouthed to Jake. And for once, Miranda appeared to be on my side.

      But before Jake could answer, the crowd rushed forward toward the stage, surrounding us as the band started in on their own variation of melodic melancholy. Oh well, at least I wouldn’t have to make chitchat with Miranda.

      I sipped my Guinness (ordering “my drink” in this place would be akin to donning a hot-pink boa) and settled in.

      I had to admit the band was pretty good, and one of them, the bass player, caught my eye. I watched him bend over his instrument, his shaggy hair obscuring his (undoubtedly soulful) eyes. And like any perfectly sane person, I imagined how our life together would be.

      Let’s see—after going on the road for a few club tours and collecting a slew of zany stories as two young free spirits, “Ben” (a sensitive yet masculine name, I think) and I would settle down in a brightly painted Brooklyn apartment filled with funky art and mementos from our touring adventures. Our adorable toddler named…Coda, or something similarly eccentric, would be along soon enough. The house would be teeming with pets and plants, signifying our thriving fertility and life-breeding spirit. I’d attend PTA meetings wearing the latest frock from my collection of cutting-edge hand knits that I sold at my hip Williamsburg boutique (which was frequented by all the major fashion editors and constantly featured in the pages of underground European fashion magazines). At night, we’d laugh and talk as a family to the strains of Ben’s latest composition for the film score he was working on. Coda would, of course, grow up to be a critically acclaimed filmmaker of socially and artistically progressive films, never failing to credit his parents for their loving and “creatively liberating upbringing” while giving interviews or delivering Academy Award acceptance speeches. It was so clear to me now.

      And then, my beloved fantasy mate pushed his shaggy locks away from his eyes and…James?

      I swiveled around so fast, I nearly spilled my beer. Jake looked at my fearful “Oh my God!” expression and instantly put the pieces together.

      James the bartender, the one that Jake had promised me wouldn’t be here tonight. He was a former quasi-flame whom I had abruptly and, I’m ashamed to say, not too gently let fall by the wayside when Nick and his lusty lips had hit the scene. I wanted to die.

      I looked around at the swelling crowd. I was trapped. I kept my head turned toward Jake and prayed for the set to be over so I could make my frantic exit. Finally the last irritatingly soulful song was played.

      Jake leaned over, sensing my panic. Miranda stiffened. Jesus woman, this isn’t about you! I thought to myself. I wanted to throttle her little neck.

      “Am I to assume that your evening is over?” he smiled. My panic impulses always amused him.

      “Um, yes,” I said sharply.

      At that moment, I felt the brief stillness that you feel when a private exchange suddenly becomes public.

      “Hey man, haven’t seen you in a while.” Jake had slipped into his low bass voice and Miranda ran her fingers through her hair. Clearly a heterosexual male was present. I turned to face the inevitable.

      “James!” I tried—and failed—to sound surprised to see him.

      “Hey, Lena, how’s it going?”

      “Oh, you know…” I said. Um no, he doesn’t know, you moron, I thought to myself. You conveniently disappeared from his life nine months ago.

      “Hope you enjoyed the show, glad you came by.” Of course, I’m sure what he really wanted to say was, Glad you came tonight when I look totally hot and you’re bloated with Guinness and playing third wheel to the Jake and Miranda show.

      “Oh, I did. You sounded great.” Such conversational skills, no doubt he was thinking, How did I let this one slip by?

      “Well, we’re going to leave you two alone.” Jake winked at me and guided Miranda over to the bar.

      “I’m exhausted. Mind if I sit down then?” James asked.

      “Oh, of course, please…sit.”

      So there we were, James and I.

      “I didn’t know you joined a band,” I said, simply to distract my brain from concentrating on ways to kill Jake. “You were really good.”

      “Oh, thanks.” He seemed genuinely flattered. No discernible bitterness—what was going on here?

      “So, no more bartending, huh?”

      “Oh no, had to grow up sooner or later and get a real job.”

      “Really? What’re you doing?”

      He looked around the room cautiously and whispered, “Investment banking.”

      We laughed conspiratorially.

      “Can’t say that word too loudly in this place.” I smiled.

      What the hell had I been thinking? I dropped sweet sincere James for Nick the Dick? I could feel my heart racing. It was fate—it must be. Nick was clearly the “temp,” a harmless distraction until I was ready for James, otherwise known as “The One.” Suddenly the chaos of my life made perfect, divine, joyous sense. We chatted some more—such a subtle, sophisticated sense of humor he had! And those sparkling brown eyes!

      We would live in SoHo, no scratch that—the West Village, far west, near the Hudson. In a charming little town house with red shutters, a spiral staircase, and a beautiful garden in the back where I would grow herbs and James would barbecue. We’d take our time decorating the place together. There would be weekend trips to Vermont for antiquing, dinners at Tartine around the corner, summers at our beach house in Bellport (still fabulous, but not so “sceney”). After all, we were low-key, with an elegant understated sense of style. Definitely not one of those plastic Upper East Side couples dripping designer labels and angling for a Patrick McMullen shot in Hamptons magazine. No, James and I would be—

      “Lena?” James was talking to me. For God’s sake, I thought to myself, pay attention to the conversation or he’s going to think you’re totally spacey!

      “Yes?” I said brightly.

      “I want to introduce you to Madeleine.”

      Madeleine? My perfect Village town house had just been invaded by a willowy redhead with a Fendi bag. Home wrecker.

      “Great to meet you, Lena.” She slipped her hand around James’s shoulder, and smiled at me warmly. Well, of course she was happy—she was dating my husband!

      “Hey, I love your skirt,” Madeleine said, as if she actually meant it. The sincerity of these two was really beginning to annoy me.

      “Madeleine’s a fashion designer. She just opened a shop on Crosby Street.” Was he actually beaming with pride? It was beginning to make sense to me now—James had found “The One,” a discovery that had left him so giddy that he had enough leftover glee to happily embrace any former flames with nothing but goodwill.

      “Yeah,” Madeleine said. “You should stop by sometime.”

      “Oh definitely,” I said between gritted teeth. This needed to end—now. I found myself getting out of my chair and, I’m sure, overexplaining how I really would love to chat more, but had to get home and…stick my head in the oven.

      I elbowed my way through the crowd, searching for the sweet relief of an exit.

      Once outside,

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