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by a thousand of her own biases, neuroses, insecurities, generalities. She didn’t know me. Instead of facts, she just filled in the blanks with whatever she found lying around. All the salespeople who vexed her. All the men who tried to talk her out of her clothes. All the corporate bad guys she saw on TV. Snakes and snails and puppy-dog tails. There’s a mile of difference between truth and judgment, hon. Maybe she’d figure that out for her self someday. She was young. She had time to learn.

2
BITCH FIEND
    “So aren’t you going to ask about her?”
    That was Miranda, sitting next to me in the Tiki Bar at the Honolulu Airport. We were both waiting for flights to Los Angeles. Once there, she would hop her connecting plane to New York, and I would go home and go to bed. I looked forward to that.
    I gazed up at the mounted TV, waiting for the five o’clock news. I loved being out in public when my stories hit the air. Here I could listen to the reactions of everyone around me. I didn’t give a crap what they thought about the nudity or the monk seal. I just wanted to hear them say the word “Fairmont.” That would mean I got them. It was a wonderful thing to see my mojo at work. Sometime within the next thirty-five minutes I’d be hawking my product to everyone in this bar without saying a word.
    “Scott?”
    “I’m sorry. What?”
    “Aren’t you going to ask me how Gracie’s doing?”
    “Oh,” I replied innocently. “No.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because if she’s good, I might feel bad. And if she’s bad, I might feel bad about feeling good. That’s the thing about being raised by German Jews. I feel guilt at my own schadenfreude.”
    Miranda laughed. “Fine. But she asked me to get the dirt on you. To see how you’re doing.”
    “What are you going to tell her?”
    “I don’t know. If you had more than one mood or facial expression, I might be able to get a better reading.”
    “Well, you’re a reporter. Ask me questions.”
    “Sorry. No. I’ve had enough disinformation for one day.”
    “Fair enough.”
    It was 4:50. The Channel 9 news team had yet to plug my story once between the slices of Judge Judy . That wasn’t encouraging.
    “For the record,” Miranda added, “she’s good.”
    I knew that. And I was glad for Gracie. There was really no reason for me to stay angry. We had what we had. From the beginning we’d agreed to be the Anti-Couple. We weren’t going to meld into one freakish entity or follow any preconceived notions of how to exist. No Franklin Covey tenets. No magazine quizzes. No chicken soup for our souls. And most important, no theatrics. We knew that melodrama was the leading cause of death in all relationships. We were two individuals whose lives would not imitate art.
    That was the real pity. That she broke her oath. The tale of how she met and fell in love with her husband could have come straight from a beginner screenwriting class: a smarmy, syrupy pastiche of every Meg Ryan vehicle. Fortunately I was off-screen for most of it. The plot was eventually relayed to me by Miranda, who played the heroine’s blunt but supportive friend. She didn’t tell me what climactic stunt he had used to win Gracie’s heart. Rode a balloon to her office building. Dressed up in a bunny suit. Who knows? He got her. I got over it.
    “So is there someone else in your life?” Miranda asked.
    I checked my watch, then the TV. “Nope.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because nobody likes me.”
    “That’s bullshit. You’re tall. You’re smart. You’re funny. And you’ve got that whole sexy ‘evil’ thing going on.”
    “Oh, is that back in vogue?”
    The young bartender refreshed my Diet Pepsi. I dropped a lemon wedge in the glass, then stirred it with a straw.
    “Whatever,” said Miranda. “Maybe I’ll fix you up with someone. I don’t know many eligible women. But apparently my husband does.”
    “Jim’s a prick.”
    “No kidding.”
    She took a long sip of her Mai Tai.