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bottle of Malbec. Actually, I order a Merlot, but Dawn corrects me by telling the waiter, “No, we’ll have a Malbec. Something in the fifty dollar range.”
    As the waiter leaves, I can’t help myself. “What the hell was that about?”
    “Merlot is over. Malbec is the next Merlot.”
    “Are you serious?” I ask a little too loudly.
    “Oh, please, can we keep that look on our face for the rest of the night, so that no one talks to us,” Dawn chastises me.
    “I like the old Merlot.”
    “Please. You’d still be wearing leggings if it weren’t for me. The nineties are over.”
    I pull a tampon out of my purse, and throw it at her. Clearly a woman this bitchy must be on the rag. Missing my insult entirely, Dawn slips it into her purse. (Okay, I guess she is on the rag.) Our waiter comes back with the bottle of Malbec, and two glasses interlocked in his fingers. “Compliments of the gentleman at the bar,” he informs us.
    I would sarcastically say, “That narrows it down,” but you can’t miss the guy at the bar—a smoldering dark-haired god who smiles ever so seductively as he raises his Tidy Bowl martini to us. Must be for Dawn.
    Dawn smiles and waves to him as the waiter pours for us. “Who’s that?” I ask, fake-smiling at the man like a Pan Am stewardess.
    “Sean Brown. Writes action movies,” Dawn says, smiling back and waving. “He wrote that one I was in, Last Patriot. ”
    As Sean begins to walk over to us, I see that another good-looking man is with him: blond hair, hazel eyes, not-gonna-kick-him-out-of-bed-for-eating-crackers body. Why is it good-looking men always travel in packs? “I didn’t know writers looked like that,” I say under my breath as I take my first sip of Malbec.
    “They don’t. He used to be an actor,” Dawn whispers, then gets up, and with great flourish, kisses him hello. “Sean, you gorgeous man, when did you get back in town?”
    “Just last week,” Sean says, then turns to the man with him. “This is my friend Tom Conroy. He’s also a writer.”
    “Dawn Fraiche,” Dawn says as she shakes Tom’s hand, “and this is my friend Charlie.”
    Tom stares at me and smiles. It’s a penetrating stare. One that can only make me think of, well, penetrating. Or at the very least, a probing tongue.
    “Hi,” he croons. I swear, he actually croons.
    I can’t help but smile. He is so cute. But I like Dave, I accidentally remind myself.
    But I’m not supposed to like Dave, so I can think this man’s cute.
    Man—why do I even need a man? I’m so busy mindfucking myself—who needs sex?
    “Marty Wolf is over there,” Sean tells Dawn as he points to a balding middle-aged guy with a ponytail. “He’s a brilliant new director. You guys are going to love each other. Do you mind if I steal her for a few minutes?” he asks me, already whisking my friend away.
    “No problem,” I say to the air—as they are already halfway across the room by then.
    Tom stands by my table awkwardly for a few seconds. “So, are you an actress, too?” he asks me.
    “Do I look like an actress?” I say, not bothering to hide the irritation in my voice. “Wait, don’t answer that.”
    “Why?”
    “Because if you say yes it’ll sound like a line, and if you say no I’ll be offended.”
    He smiles, waves his hand toward my table, and asks, “May I?”
    I nod and smile.
    Tom sits next to me. “So, I guess you’ve heard a lot of lines in your time.”
    What the hell is that supposed to mean? I think, but I don’t want to come off angry. Instead, I say diplomatically, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
    “Nothing. You were just saying that if I said you were an actress, it would sound like a line, so I figured you’ve heard a lot of them.” Tom takes a handful of mixed nuts from a glow-in-the-dark blue bowl on our table. I get the feeling he’s actually nervous.
    Which I guess is a good thing.
    “What’s the worst line you’ve ever heard?” he asks.
    “You wanna