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when I get off,” he said.
    â€œNo, that’s really nice of you, but I’ll be all right,” I told him, touched by the offer.
    Before leaving, I turned back.
    â€œHey, I’ve been meaning to tell you. I was so sorry to hear about your dad,” I said, my cheeks warming at the unexpected intimacy, which I wasn’t sure was appropriate. “I guess I haven’t seen you much since then, but I wanted to say something.”
    â€œIt was awful,” he said. “Caught us all by surprise.”
    â€œI really liked him,” I said. “So much.” He smiled, but looked sad.
    â€œWell, I’d better go,” I said, backing right into Buster. “Excuse me, sweetness,” I said, petting the dog and waving awkwardly to his owner at the same time.
    I walked out onto First Avenue, bulging bags and paint cans banging against my shins, wondering why everyone in the world is nicer to me than my boyfriend. It’s clear to me that Jake is not the guy who will someday move into my new apartment and wonder with me if it would be fun to squeeze a crib into our small bedroom or more logical to sell the place and buy more space in Brooklyn or Queens. Sometimes I worry that I jinxed myself by buying an apartment before I had someone to share it with. Then I try to convince myself that I’ve laid the foundation, you know: “If you clean it up, paint it, and make it cozy, he will come,” Field of Dreams –style. This space could accommodate a couple, I tell myself, and it will. I’m not doomed to live alone forever. It just feels that way sometimes.
    Checking out my uniform—jeans, black tank top, hoodie, and boots—in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door, I announce to Courtney, “I’m putting on a party dress.” She sprints for my closet. Courtney lives for the opportunity to go through my clothes, either to help me choose an outfit or threaten to burn one. Last year for spring cleaning, we made a pot of stinky tea Courtney swears is a wonder cleanser for toxic livers like mine, and she watched me try on every item of clothing I owned. She made me get rid of everything gray or brown (“You have pale skin and freckles. Neutral colors wash out your natural beauty and light”), unfashionable (“It reminds me of third-season 90210 ”), or inappropriate (“You’re a woman in your thirties and that getup shows six inches of thigh and three of midriff”). She also completely reorganized my closet and drawers, without my asking. She’s a Virgo—and a goddess.
    â€œSomething low cut,” I shout from the bathroom, where I’m scrutinizing the lines beginning to appear under my eyes. When I was in my teens, my skin was as smooth as heavy cream with a smattering of faint freckles across it and in the sun it would pinken, crackle, and peel. People used to say with my light skin and dark tangle of hair, I could be an Irish barmaid or, on good days, an Italian model. Beige crescents have always cradled my eyes, my beauty bête noire since I was old enough to grasp the concept of physical imperfection. When I first discovered my mother’s makeup at eight or nine, I smeared creamy white eye shadow over my dark circles and was transfixed by the transformation. Nowadays, I no longer burn in the sun and my dermatologist says I’m a perfect candidate for chemical peels. I run a finger over the wiggly creases that have settled permanently under my eyes, in spite of heavy lotion day and night, and wonder if guys in their twenties still find me attractive. I remember with relief that Jake is twenty-nine.
    â€œThere’s no saving my face,” I call out to Courtney. “I at least need my boobs to look good.”
    Courtney bursts breathlessly in without knocking, holding two dresses. I grab a purple Diane von Furstenberg number with a swooping neckline and ruching down both sides, and squeeze