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been. That’s how she got so far.”
    “Hmmm.” I roll around seductively on the beanbag.
    My actions have their desired effect, that being why should he think about his ex-wife when he has a lovely young woman—me—to concentrate on instead? Sure enough, in the next second, he asks, “How about you? Are you hungry?”
    “I’m always hungry.”
    “There’s a little French place around the corner. We could go there.”
    “Terrific,” I say, leaping to my feet, despite the fact that the word “French” reminds me of the restaurant I used to go to in Hartford with my old boyfriend, Sebastian, who dumped me for my best friend, Lali.
    “You like French food?” he asks.
    “Love it,” I reply. Sebastian and Lali were a long time ago. And besides, I’m with Bernard Singer now, not some mixed-up high school boy.
    The “little French place around the corner” turns out to be several blocks away. And it’s not exactly “little.” It’s La Grenouille. Which is so famous, even I’ve heard of it.
    Bernard ducks his head in embarrassment as the maître d’ greets him by name. “Bonsoir, Monsieur Singer. We have your usual table.”
    I look at Bernard curiously. If he comes here all the time, why didn’t he say he was a regular?
    The maître d’ picks up two menus and with an elegant tip of his head, leads us to a charming table by the window.
    Then Mr. Monkey-suit pulls out my chair, unfolds my napkin, and places it on my lap. He rearranges my wine glasses, picks up a fork, inspects it, and, the fork having passed muster, replaces it next to my plate. Honestly, all the attention is disorienting. When the maître d’ finally retreats, I look to Bernard for help.
    He’s studying the menu. “I don’t speak French. Do you?” he asks.
    “Un peu.”
    “Really?”
    “Vraiment.”
    “You must have gone to a very fancy school. The only foreign language I learned was fisticuffs.”
    “Ha.”
    “I was pretty good at it too,” he says, making jabbing motions in the air. “Had to be. I was this runt of a kid and everyone’s favorite punching bag.”
    “But you’re so tall,” I point out.
    “I didn’t grow until I was eighteen. What about you?”
    “I stopped growing when I was six.”
    “Hahaha. You’re funny.”
    And just as the conversation is about to take off, the maître d’ returns with a bottle of white wine. “Your Pouilly-Fuissé, Monsieur Singer.”
    “Oh, thanks,” Bernard says, looking sheepish again. This is very odd. The apartment, the restaurant, the wine—surely Bernard is wealthy. Why, then, does he insist on acting like he’s not? Or rather, that it’s all a burden which he must somehow endure?
    The wine pouring is yet another ritual. When it’s over, I breathe a sigh of relief.
    “It’s annoying, isn’t it?” Bernard says, echoing my thoughts.
    “Why do you let them do it, then?”
    “It makes them happy. If I didn’t sniff the cork, they’d be very disappointed.”
    “You might even lose your special table.”
    “I’ve been trying to sit at that table”—he points to an empty table in the back of the room—“for years. But they won’t let me. It’s Siberia,” he adds, in a dramatic whisper.
    “Is it colder there?”
    “Freezing.”
    “And what about this table?”
    “Right on the equator.” He pauses. “And you—you’re on the equator too.” He reaches out and takes my hand. “I like your gumption,” he says.
    The chef pulls out all the stops for Bernard. After a stomach-numbing meal of seven courses—including soup, a soufflé, two desserts, and some delicious after-dinner wine that tastes like ambrosia—I look at my watch and discover it’s just after midnight. “I ought to go.”
    “Why? Will you turn into a pumpkin?”
    “Something like that,” I say, thinking about Peggy.
    His next move hangs in the air, spinning like a lazy disco ball. “I suppose I should walk you home,” he says finally.
    “And ruin all this?” I laugh.
    “I