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said, finishing her cosmopolitan in three gulps. This is why she hates martini glasses; she can’t take gulps without spilling cranberry juice all over her Donna Karan blouses. “I’m back to square one. I’m standing exactly where I stood eighteen months ago, only I’m eighteen months older.”
    Thirty loomed large in Maya’s mind. The landmark birthday wouldn’t have been a problem if she still had an agent. But the marker was rapidly approaching—she only had fifteen days left to find new representation. It seemed unlikely that she would and so she has tensed her shoulders in expectation of a heavy blow. This is the sort of thing that happens when you set objectives for yourself and try to achieve things. Goals are the real enemy.
    Despite all my hard work, tears welled up in Maya’s eyes and she backslid into heaving sobs. I understood her sorrow. For a little while, she had stood apart from all the other magazine freelancers with manuscripts under their arms. For alittle while, she’d been distinguishable. Now she was tossed back into the chorus line, where we all look alike.
    I ordered another round of drinks, handed her some tissues and began muttering platitudes about things happening for a reason. I thought she’d had too much vodka to notice that I suddenly sounded like a greeting card, but she wasn’t that drunk. She wasn’t too drunk at all and she refused to let me offer mass-produced comfort, although that is what I do best. So I started slinging mud. It’s the last defense of the helpless. “You’re really better off. She was an awful agent.”
    Maya balled the tissues in her fist. This was not what she wanted to hear. “She was a good agent.”
    “And how many books did she manage to sell for you?”
    Now I’ve just thoughtlessly reminded her of her failure not just to keep an agent but to make a sale as well. Fresh tears began falling, and although she started the sentence with something resembling composure, by the end her words were scarcely more than a whimper. “Marcia got my work read and rejected. I can’t ask for…more…than…th-that.”
    “Pooh,” I said, dismissive of her logic. You can and should always ask for more, especially when you’ve set goals for yourself. “You’ll find another agent and she’ll be better than Marcia. Just you wait. The next one won’t call you Dylan.”
    She realized the truth of this. It is extremely unlikely that the next agent—if there is a next agent—will also have a client named Dylan. “But what if I never find another one?”
    I told her not to be silly, and after several more attempts at lifting her spirits with upbeat and optimistic inanities, I realized she wanted to wallow. I realized she wanted to cast herself into the thick swamp of disconsolation and loll there in the mud. I had no right to deny her its soothing coolness, and threw myself in alongside. They tell you that finding an agent is harder than finding a publisher, but Maya knows that’s not true. As hard as getting an agent is, snagging a publisher is many times more difficult. And you can’t do it from the back row of the chorus line.
     
    We are here now because Maya broke up with her boyfriend.
    “It’s over,” she said when I picked up the phone. No hello, no how are you, just it’s over. Thank God.
    “What about the ring?” I asked.
    “I don’t give a fuck about the ring.”
    “How does it feel?”
    “Awful.”
    “Wanna get a drink?”
    “Be there in fifteen.”
    It was the middle of the day, but I didn’t care. I’m nobody’s assistant and operate under the supposition that I should work when I want to. I often sneak away during periods of downtime to go shopping or see a movie in the theater next door. All I have to do to lull suspicion is keep my computer on, leave my jacket hanging in the corner and light a candle.
    I’m almost done with my gin and tonic when the bartender reappears to ask if we want another round. This is the great thing