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Harry has always been blunt, but that’s what I love about him. “What am I going to do?”
    â€œTry widening your net. Nobody will ever live up to your expectations.”
    â€œYou do, Harry, but you’re taken.” I look around the room, as if my imaginary man sits nearby in disguise. “I know I need to get out more, but every good-looking guy has some neurosis or narcissistic complex. Every nice guy is either married or looks like a variation on Pee-wee Herman or Danny DeVito.”
    â€œDanny DeVito isn’t bad-looking.” Harry finishes his coffee and stands up. “I can’t help you much longer. Jonny and I are planning a commitment ceremony in two weeks. You’re my maid of honor.”
    I’m stunned. Two weeks? Commitment ceremony? I’ll be the Old Maid of Honor.
    â€œCongratulations,” I manage to say. I scramble to my feet. “I’m so happy for you. Are you sure he’s the right one?”
    â€œHe leaves his underwear lying around, but we love each other.”
    â€œWonderful news.” My smile hides a nagging emptiness.
    â€œThank you for setting us up. You have a sixth sense about these things.” Harry speaks in a blithe, buoyant tone, which makes me feel even more bereft.
    â€œIt’s all in the math.” My mouth is dry.
    â€œAfter the ceremony we’re moving to Paris. I’ll be based there on Air France.”
    Harry’s words fall on my feet with a thud. “You’re what? You’re leaving?”
    â€œWe’ll ship our furniture by sea. We’ll only have suitcases. We’ll also have to give up our apartment a few days early. If it’s not too much of an imposition, could we stay with you?”
    â€œOf course. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
    â€œOh, in that case we’ll stay in a hotel—”
    â€œI won’t hear of it.”
    â€œThanks a million. Look, honey. Come visit us in Paris. Flights are cheap now.”
    â€œHarry”
You can’t leave me
. “What will I do?”
    He shrugs. “Find a fiancé, or don’t. It’s a free country.”
    I stand and watch him stride out, all heads turning to watch his smooth gait. He’s a model on a runway, and here I am, invisible. I’ve spent my life being happy for other people. Joining their hands, helping them on the road to their shared futures, while my future slips into the ditch.

Ten
    T
he day passes in a haze. I see three new clients, one a millionaire land developer who wants a perfect blond to drape over his arm; Mrs. Mukerjee calls to say Sonya liked her last date, but the man wants a younger woman. He’ll have to date an embryo.
    All afternoon I field calls, enter data, and find myself staring more than once at a blank computer screen.
    Around four o’clock, a call comes in. Nothing but static. Probably a Japanese golf company CEO looking for a voluptuous American wife. A distant voice shouts
Hello, Hello
. He can’t hear my reply, so I hang up.
    When I have a few minutes to breathe, I spread out files and photographs of male clients, and then Donna walks right in, drops an envelope in my in-box, and sits across from me. She has the pale skin of a vampire and the porcelain features of a Nordic queen. She’s divorced and has a five-year-old boy in kindergarten.
    I open the envelope. Mr. Sen enclosed photos of himself walking past the Palace of Fine Arts, posing in front of the Wax Museum at Fisherman’s Wharf, sitting cross-legged on a black couch in a stark living room. In each shot, he looks like a paper cutout pasted onto the background.
    I sense his loneliness. He would rather be in India, surrounded by his mother, his four sisters and two brothers. Here in America, he’s a prop without a past.
    Donna’s delicately penciled eyebrows furrow. “What’s going on? What are you doing with those photos?”
    â€œResearch.”
    â€œWhat kind of