friends, only I’m not allowed to say that. She says best friend is a label only seventh graders use. I love her but she’s always coming up with these rules and edicts nobody else ever heard of. Kristine’s forty-two, three years older than me, and recently divorced from her husband, Zach, following an eight-month trial separation during which Zach dated while Kristine waited for him to come to his senses. Zach is now engaged to a kindergarten teacher.
Kristine has since declared her brain a no-Zach zone. She’s determined not to be one of those women who divorce a guy but maintain a relationship in their head, rehashing and rearguing, using up their psychic energy. And, yes, I’m her role model for a bad example. She’s turned herself into the queen of moving forward, online dating with a vengeance, working her way through all of cyberspace as a determined optimist. Except she’s way picky. She stopped seeing one guy when he showed up wearing a fanny pack; rejected another because he called Myanmar, Burma.
Kristine and I first met the Christmas I worked in Bloomingdale’s appliance department. She was using her discount to buy a juicer for Zach’s mother. Kristine works in Bloomingdale’s furniture department. She calls herself aninterior decorator; Bloomingdale’s calls her a sales associate. Whenever she comes to my apartment, she starts rearranging my chairs and pushing around my sofa. But I don’t mind. She has excellent taste.
Kristine’s wide-eyed and thin-lipped, with eyeglasses that are always smudged. Honest to God, she must dredge them through a mud puddle every morning. She wears heels to make herself not just tall, but intimidating, and can outeat a military division without gaining an ounce. Her superhigh metabolism makes her the perfect companion for the occasional restaurant assignments I get when Joel’s sick at home with food poisoning.
“What’s with this place?” Kristine asked, surveying the restaurant’s glossy walls, frosted-glass panels, and linen fixtures, its long, curved bar substituting for a deli counter. We were seated side by side on a leather banquette, ivory with gold piping. “I feel like we’re eating in a spa.”
Our waitress was wearing what looked like an aproned uniform and ruffled, white cap if Armani had designed an aproned uniform and ruffled, white cap. I ordered six appetizers and four entrées. Only a moron wouldn’t suspect I was reviewing the place.
“Nothing else?” the waitress asked. She kept warning us the portions were big. “Any allergies?”
“Penicillin,” I said.
“Fine,” she said, walking off. “Stay away from the chicken soup.”
While Kristine and I waited for our food, we made conversationlike we were normal patrons, instead of undercover patrons. “How are your write-’em-like-Nora interviews?” she asked.
I said, “Thanks for ruining my appetite.”
“That badly?”
“That slowly. How about I interview you right now?”
“Isn’t it cheating to interview your friends?”
“I prefer to think of it as efficient.”
“Okay. Shoot.”
I used my best fake radio-announcer voice. “So, Ms. Marshall, how will you recognize your perfect man?”
“Besides his devastating good looks, animal prowess, and trust fund?”
“Yes. Besides that.”
“He has to be willing to die for me. And then prove it.”
“Thank you,” I said. “End of interview.”
“Have you been studying Nora’s movies?” Kristine asked. “And I don’t mean Silkwood ; that one’s depressing. The romantic ones.”
“Yes, and I’ve read her neck book and bought her remembering-nothing book, but I can’t write like her.”
“This is the suckiest assignment in history,” Kristine said. “When Jennifer Love Hewitt made The Audrey Hepburn Story, the press crucified her for not looking like Audrey Hepburn.”
“What about that old senator who told that vice-president guy, ‘And you, young man, are no John F. Kennedy.’ I have
Kristine has since declared her brain a no-Zach zone. She’s determined not to be one of those women who divorce a guy but maintain a relationship in their head, rehashing and rearguing, using up their psychic energy. And, yes, I’m her role model for a bad example. She’s turned herself into the queen of moving forward, online dating with a vengeance, working her way through all of cyberspace as a determined optimist. Except she’s way picky. She stopped seeing one guy when he showed up wearing a fanny pack; rejected another because he called Myanmar, Burma.
Kristine and I first met the Christmas I worked in Bloomingdale’s appliance department. She was using her discount to buy a juicer for Zach’s mother. Kristine works in Bloomingdale’s furniture department. She calls herself aninterior decorator; Bloomingdale’s calls her a sales associate. Whenever she comes to my apartment, she starts rearranging my chairs and pushing around my sofa. But I don’t mind. She has excellent taste.
Kristine’s wide-eyed and thin-lipped, with eyeglasses that are always smudged. Honest to God, she must dredge them through a mud puddle every morning. She wears heels to make herself not just tall, but intimidating, and can outeat a military division without gaining an ounce. Her superhigh metabolism makes her the perfect companion for the occasional restaurant assignments I get when Joel’s sick at home with food poisoning.
“What’s with this place?” Kristine asked, surveying the restaurant’s glossy walls, frosted-glass panels, and linen fixtures, its long, curved bar substituting for a deli counter. We were seated side by side on a leather banquette, ivory with gold piping. “I feel like we’re eating in a spa.”
Our waitress was wearing what looked like an aproned uniform and ruffled, white cap if Armani had designed an aproned uniform and ruffled, white cap. I ordered six appetizers and four entrées. Only a moron wouldn’t suspect I was reviewing the place.
“Nothing else?” the waitress asked. She kept warning us the portions were big. “Any allergies?”
“Penicillin,” I said.
“Fine,” she said, walking off. “Stay away from the chicken soup.”
While Kristine and I waited for our food, we made conversationlike we were normal patrons, instead of undercover patrons. “How are your write-’em-like-Nora interviews?” she asked.
I said, “Thanks for ruining my appetite.”
“That badly?”
“That slowly. How about I interview you right now?”
“Isn’t it cheating to interview your friends?”
“I prefer to think of it as efficient.”
“Okay. Shoot.”
I used my best fake radio-announcer voice. “So, Ms. Marshall, how will you recognize your perfect man?”
“Besides his devastating good looks, animal prowess, and trust fund?”
“Yes. Besides that.”
“He has to be willing to die for me. And then prove it.”
“Thank you,” I said. “End of interview.”
“Have you been studying Nora’s movies?” Kristine asked. “And I don’t mean Silkwood ; that one’s depressing. The romantic ones.”
“Yes, and I’ve read her neck book and bought her remembering-nothing book, but I can’t write like her.”
“This is the suckiest assignment in history,” Kristine said. “When Jennifer Love Hewitt made The Audrey Hepburn Story, the press crucified her for not looking like Audrey Hepburn.”
“What about that old senator who told that vice-president guy, ‘And you, young man, are no John F. Kennedy.’ I have
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