down?’
‘Nathan Gundersen bisexually cheated on you and he gets to make more money than the emcee in Cabaret ? What the fuck kind of karma is that?’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Well,’ he said. ‘There is more to life than just making money as some flash-in-the-pan, so-called “hunk” on an inconsequential daytime soap opera.’
‘You guys know Nate Gundersen?’ Tredwell said.
Yale ignored him. ‘The minute that ass drops - and let me tell you it will drop - not a soul in the universe will return his calls. Male, female, canine, bovine . . . No one. Because beneath that . . . that gaudy exterior, he has no substance. No . . . intelligence.’
‘He graduated from Standford summa cum laude.’
‘Oh, for shit’s sake!’
Tredwell was still standing over us, a tiny red pitcher balanced on his palm.
‘We would not like any cream!’ said Yale.
I said, ‘You sound angrier than me.’
‘I know. It’s just . . . God. I hate Nate for what he did to you. He doesn’t deserve anything.’
‘We’re in agreement there.’
‘And, not to sound selfish, but it isn’t fair to me either.’
I looked at him.
‘Hey, I work hard, and I strive to be a good person, and I’ve never cheated on anyone, let alone bisexually cheated on them, and that prick can do any play that he wants while I’m lucky to get a chorus part at a dinner theater on Long Island. He’s clearly stolen my hard-earned good fortune.’
I couldn’t help but smile a little.
‘And . . . and then you tell me he’s summa cum laude? I mean, he has money and fame and fans and . . . and that ass, and now I can’t even take comfort in his possible stupidity? What am I supposed to do about that?’
My smile grew broader. Yale had a talent for making himself the injured party in any given situation - particularly the ones that were actually damaging to me. It was oddly soothing, the way he asked me to help him with my problems. ‘You have a very nice ass,’ I said.
Yale gave my hand a squeeze. ‘Get this away from me.’ He folded up the Post and stuffed it back in my bag.
Meanwhile, the waiter was lingering like bad breath.
I said, ‘I swear to God we don’t need anything else.’
Tredwell put down the cursed pitcher of cream, knocking over a saltshaker in the process. I pinched up some salt, tossed it over my left shoulder and glared at him.
Tredwell stared unblinkingly over our heads, and then slowly, his lips parted. ‘Whoa,’ he said softly, and proceeded to knock over my coffee.
Tredwell brought new meaning to the words economy of movement . With hot coffee streaming over the edge of the counter and onto the decidedly nonwaterproof shoulder bag that sat in my lap, he waited several seconds before slowly reaching behind him, grabbing a stack of paper napkins and placing them in front of me without so much as offering to help. As Yale used some of the napkins to dam off the coffee, I tried to sop up my purse. ‘We could use a few more napkins here, budd Cinsaley,’ Yale said, but Tredwell just stood there like a lamp.
A deep, inflectionless voice behind us said, ‘Turn around, Bright Eyes.’
Yale gasped. ‘Peter . . . don’t you look . . . striking today.’
‘Can I have some seltzer water?’ I said, but Tredwell remained paralyzed. I didn’t care how good-looking Peter Steele was, this little creep wasn’t getting a tip.
I looped the shoulder strap over the counter stool so the bag was facing out at the room behind me. ‘I guess I’ll just have to air this out then.’
Peter’s voice was saying, ‘Well, come on. What do you think?’
‘They’re definitely interesting,’ Yale said.
‘They’re one of a kind. At least that’s what the guy at the contact lens place told me. I can’t decide whether they’re hot or scary.’
‘I’d say they’re a little of both.’
‘Know what they’re called? Magic Mirrors.’
I spun around on the counter stool and looked
‘Nathan Gundersen bisexually cheated on you and he gets to make more money than the emcee in Cabaret ? What the fuck kind of karma is that?’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Well,’ he said. ‘There is more to life than just making money as some flash-in-the-pan, so-called “hunk” on an inconsequential daytime soap opera.’
‘You guys know Nate Gundersen?’ Tredwell said.
Yale ignored him. ‘The minute that ass drops - and let me tell you it will drop - not a soul in the universe will return his calls. Male, female, canine, bovine . . . No one. Because beneath that . . . that gaudy exterior, he has no substance. No . . . intelligence.’
‘He graduated from Standford summa cum laude.’
‘Oh, for shit’s sake!’
Tredwell was still standing over us, a tiny red pitcher balanced on his palm.
‘We would not like any cream!’ said Yale.
I said, ‘You sound angrier than me.’
‘I know. It’s just . . . God. I hate Nate for what he did to you. He doesn’t deserve anything.’
‘We’re in agreement there.’
‘And, not to sound selfish, but it isn’t fair to me either.’
I looked at him.
‘Hey, I work hard, and I strive to be a good person, and I’ve never cheated on anyone, let alone bisexually cheated on them, and that prick can do any play that he wants while I’m lucky to get a chorus part at a dinner theater on Long Island. He’s clearly stolen my hard-earned good fortune.’
I couldn’t help but smile a little.
‘And . . . and then you tell me he’s summa cum laude? I mean, he has money and fame and fans and . . . and that ass, and now I can’t even take comfort in his possible stupidity? What am I supposed to do about that?’
My smile grew broader. Yale had a talent for making himself the injured party in any given situation - particularly the ones that were actually damaging to me. It was oddly soothing, the way he asked me to help him with my problems. ‘You have a very nice ass,’ I said.
Yale gave my hand a squeeze. ‘Get this away from me.’ He folded up the Post and stuffed it back in my bag.
Meanwhile, the waiter was lingering like bad breath.
I said, ‘I swear to God we don’t need anything else.’
Tredwell put down the cursed pitcher of cream, knocking over a saltshaker in the process. I pinched up some salt, tossed it over my left shoulder and glared at him.
Tredwell stared unblinkingly over our heads, and then slowly, his lips parted. ‘Whoa,’ he said softly, and proceeded to knock over my coffee.
Tredwell brought new meaning to the words economy of movement . With hot coffee streaming over the edge of the counter and onto the decidedly nonwaterproof shoulder bag that sat in my lap, he waited several seconds before slowly reaching behind him, grabbing a stack of paper napkins and placing them in front of me without so much as offering to help. As Yale used some of the napkins to dam off the coffee, I tried to sop up my purse. ‘We could use a few more napkins here, budd Cinsaley,’ Yale said, but Tredwell just stood there like a lamp.
A deep, inflectionless voice behind us said, ‘Turn around, Bright Eyes.’
Yale gasped. ‘Peter . . . don’t you look . . . striking today.’
‘Can I have some seltzer water?’ I said, but Tredwell remained paralyzed. I didn’t care how good-looking Peter Steele was, this little creep wasn’t getting a tip.
I looped the shoulder strap over the counter stool so the bag was facing out at the room behind me. ‘I guess I’ll just have to air this out then.’
Peter’s voice was saying, ‘Well, come on. What do you think?’
‘They’re definitely interesting,’ Yale said.
‘They’re one of a kind. At least that’s what the guy at the contact lens place told me. I can’t decide whether they’re hot or scary.’
‘I’d say they’re a little of both.’
‘Know what they’re called? Magic Mirrors.’
I spun around on the counter stool and looked
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