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lips. “After the first date I thought no way, but then I decided not to be shal ow and that I’d give him another chance.”
    “And?”
    “So I did. We went on three dates, and he was a perfect gentleman. He even picked me up at my apartment before our date!”
    “Syd?” I say. “That’s what guys are supposed to do.”
    “Wel , they never do it for me. And he didn’t even try to kiss me on the first date. And then he was also a perfect gentleman on our second date. He wouldn’t come upstairs. And I offered. ”
    “I have no doubt.”
    “So on our third date—” she begins.
    “Wait—was he stil making the fish face al the time?”
    “Yes! And it got worse ,” she says. “He’d be tel ing me a story and then make these dramatic pauses, and the face would hold for the entire pause. It was awful! But I looked past it, and on our third date we final y had sex. Three times.”
    “To make up for the first two dates.”
    “Something like that,” she says. “But get this . . .
    here I am, sucking it up, not being shal ow . . . giving old fish-face a chance—and he blew me off! Never cal ed me again! What’s up with that ?”
    “That’s weird,” I say.
    “I know! And you wanna know what’s really weird? I don’t think he came when we had sex. Al three times.”
    “Wel . . . usual y you know. I mean, you know. ”
    “I’m tel ing you!” she practical y shouts. “He acted like he came. Ful on! But after . . . when I went to throw something away, I looked at the condoms in my trash can . . . and there was nothing in them.”
    “Okay—why are you digging condoms up out of your trash?”
    “I wasn’t,” she says defensively. “They were just there, and I noticed they looked empty.”
    “That’s weird.”
    “He pretended like he came. Al three times. Why would a guy pretend to come? Do guys fake orgasms, too? Can you imagine if we were both faking?”
    “Were you?” I ask.
    “No, I came. But the real point here is that he never cal ed me again! I threw him a bone and he blew me off. Maybe he was gay,” she says, sipping her coffee.

    Brady
    I have two main friends I’ve had for as long as I can remember. One is Phil, with whom I share an office, a company, and far too many hours. The other is Zach, whom I spend considerably less time with but have many more quality conversations with. However, this is not necessarily one of those times. Zach is a substitute teacher/karaoke host. Put the man in front of a mic and he’l bring a smile to your face, a tap to your foot, and your girlfriend to his bedroom.
    Zach is too smart for his own—or anyone else’s—
    good. Then again, Zach thinks I’m too smart for my own—or anyone else’s—good. Like me, he puts himself into every movie character he likes. Except, where I’d be the flawed but lovable fuck-up who triumphs, though barely, at the last hour—the Hugh Grants and John Cusacks of the world—Zach would be the good-looking hipster loose-cannon type. The Jack Nicholsons and Rock Hudsons. Wel , the young Jacks. And the straight Rocks.
    Zach spends most of his free time trying to plan the perfect crime, which he has every intention of pul ing off one day.
    I’m sitting with him at this Mexican restaurant cal ed Lucy’s. It’s equidistant from our offices, and we meet here for lunch at least once a week. It’s murder on my digestive system but better than fighting over who traveled farther last time. Zach’s drinking a Mojito and keeps referring to it with a bad thick Spanish accent, making it sound an awful lot like Cornholio.
    “What’s not to love? Sugar, mint, lime juice, rum, ice, soda . . . it’s like a glass of happiness,” he says, adding “Mojito” once again in the Spanish tongue.
    “Can you not turn into Phil, please? This is my lunch break. My reprieve.”

    “Sorry.”
    “I’m going for the patent.”
    “Cinnamilk, or the Catch-It Cone?” he asks.
    “Cinnamilk,” I say. The Catch-It Cone is another of my