“Not too much,” I say.
He peers down at the ball and says, “Damn. My dry cleaner isn’t going to get that stain off my suede jacket.”
I laugh. “Why are your questions posed to the Eight Ball always so inane?”
“Because my life is inane. You know that,” he says, running his hand over his clean-shaven head. Michael has the smoothest brown skin I’ve ever seen. He almost looks airbrushed. Ben has always said that Michael looks like Charles Barkley and I guess I can see the resemblance around the eyes and eyebrows, but Michael isn’t nearly as bulky as Barkley, and his features are sharper.
“Right,” I say sarcastically. Michael’s life is anything but inane. Just last week, he accidentally sent an e-mail to the entire company about his assistant being incompetent.
“So anyway. Where are you with Amy Dickerson’s novel? Is Time going to review it or what?” I ask.
“I’m getting there,” he says, yawning. Michael is a total procrastinator, but can usually charm his way into getting any review for me. Everybody in the business loves him, and I’m always thrilled when he’s covering one of my books. “No worries.” He points to my Zagat . “What? Do you have a hot date already?”
“No,” I say. “I’m trying to pick a place to meet Ben tonight.”
“To discuss reconciliation?”
“No. To discuss the division of our assets.”
“Hmm,” he says. “How about Kittichai? I have a reservation I’d rather not use.”
I raise my eyebrows. Long story.
“I have time.”
“She’s too needy.”
“Ahh,” I say, flipping to the Ks . “So, Kittichai. That’s in the Thompson Hotel, right?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I have a table for two at eight. It’s yours if you want it.”
“I’ve actually never been,” I say. “And I don’t think this is the night to be trying something new.”
“So go to an old standby Gramercy Tavern? Aquavit? Balthazar?”
I shake my head. “Can’t do those, either. Old standbys are imbued with too many memories. Good memories. Celebrations. It would be conflicting,” I say. “I can’t very well be sitting there telling Ben that I want our Calphalon pots, all the while thinking about our first anniversary or the night we got a little crazy in the back of a cab”
“You don’t even cook. You really want the pots?” he asks.
“No. I don’t really want anything.”
Michael nods and then squints up at the ceiling as if he has something in his contacts. “Just curious on that back-of-a-cab thing I’m testing a theory did that happen before or after you guys got hitched?”
“Before,” I say, pushing away the memory as I continue. “I think I have to aim for something in between trendy, new hotspot, and tried-and-true favorite. A place we’ve both been before, but a place with no particular connotation. A place with a decent vibe, but not too much gaiety,” I say. “And I’m thinking low marks in service. I don’t want a lot of interruptions or too much food and wine description.”
Michael laughs.
I shoot him a look. “This isn’t funny.”
His smile fades and he says, “My bad. You’re right, this isn’t funny.”
“Okay. It’s a little bit funny,” I say, thinking that maybe those people who crack jokes in the face of hardship are on to something.
He shakes the 8 Ball again and says, “Uh-oh.”
“What?” I say.
“Never mind,” he says. “I don’t believe in this thing anyway.”
The night of our final “date,” I arrive at a random bistro in Hell’s Kitchen (a neighborhood with which Ben and I have the fewest ties) ten minutes late but still before Ben. This annoys me because I have to have a drink at the bar, which makes the evening feel too much like a date, rather than the business transaction it is. I wonder if perhaps we should have met for lunch instead.
Ben saunters in after I’ve ordered my wine and taken my first few sips. He is wearing loose-fitting jeans and a new white shirt that makes his chest and arms look especially cut. Ben has one of those not-too-big, not-too-small, hard bodies that always looks perfect in clothes. And unfortunately for me now, even better without.
“Nice shirt,” I say with a trace of sarcasm. I want him to know that I know that he’s been shopping during our turmoil.
He gives me a defensive look and then mumbles something about picking a few things up at the Gap. Picturing Ben trying on casual clothes that he will surely be wearing on dates with blushing, fertile girls in their early twenties makes me almost hate him. This is actually a good, healthy thing, though, because hating him takes the sad edge off the night. I settle up at the bar, and we walk over to the ma?tre d’s podium.