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asked. Better get this out of the way now, trust me. He laughed, showing off distinct crow’s-feet, which I had the sudden urge to lick. The perfect response. He was straight! Yay, me!
    “Last meal?” The Final Test. L.A. men don’t eat. They’re all watching their waistlines. If I actually dated, I’d starve to death.
    “Tie between Joe’s Stone Crab and a margarita or Baby Blues in Venice, washed down with a couple Red Labels. I’m a chef, so food is, I don’t know—let’s put it this way, my last girlfriend was jealous of all the attention I gave my meat loaf.”
    My breath caught in my chest. “You’re a chef?”
    “A private chef, but I’m thinking about writing a cookbook series.”
    “What a coincidence,” I said, “I like to eat. You want to come in, see my doorknobs?”
    “I usually don’t do that on the first date,” he said.
    “This isn’t a date,” I said.
    “But I brought you a dog.”
    “That would be the worst thing to bring me on a date.”
    John laughed. “This is never going to work out, you know.”
    “You haven’t even seen my hardware.” I sashayed past Sheila.
    “You need me to hang out?” Sheila asked, eyeballing John.
    “It’s okay,” I said, watching John hop toward my house. “Unless he’s wearing La Perlas under those jeans, I’m going to keep him.”
    “You don’t know him, dude,” Sheila said, grabbing my arm. I smelled patchouli on her, mixed with dog shampoo. Or is that the same thing? “He could be a dognapper. They’re all over the place. Along with the coyotes …”
    “I’ll take my chances,” I said. John and I spent the afternoon admiring my door handles, restored cherrywood floors, and, yes, my office’s textured walls. We locked ourselves in the office, away from the demonic Ralph, to steal our first kiss. (I was talking. I don’t think I ever stopped the whole time we were together. Even when I slept. I just couldn’t believe I had found someone who loved me enough to listen.)
    John took my face in his hands and kissed me.
    “You just want me to shut up,” I said, coming up for air. Our foreheads touched, his eyelashes playing with mine.
    “Yes,” he said. “Apparently, it didn’t work.”
    So, he kissed me again. Oh, oh … oh.
    “I’m never going to be quiet,” I said, after catching my breath, “if you keep that up.”
    We made love. Well, furious, high-school-but-a-hundred-times-better sex. I’m surprised either of us survived. I threw out all my relationship books the next morning, when John went to get his things.
    Dead bastard .
    After John’s death, Jay sets up shop for me outside in the backyard, under our beloved avocado tree. Jay has a theory that the sun is good for me, that lying in my darkened bedroom with the shades drawn is, somehow, unhealthy. Tell that to mushrooms.
    Chloe makes me chamomile tea. She feels I’m not ready for Starbucks, and she’s probably right. Aimee makes sure my patio chair is wiped of Santa Monica morning dew, which tends to hang around through the afternoon. She buys me little sandwiches andsalads, which look perfect and delicious and as appealing to me as eating clay. Complete thoughts escape me. All I can think is one word: Why. Why? Why? Why.
    “Why” is my mantra.
    I say it so many times, that one night, as I sit under my avocado tree’s protective canopy, I hear an answer.
    “Why not?”
    It was the old lady’s voice again. Then … nothing.
    The wind. A distant howl. Someone playing the new Mariah Carey CD two streets over.
    But the words rang clear and true in my mind, and echoed in my soul. This simplest of answers gave me solace. That night was the first I’d slept longer than an hour since John left.
    Why not .
    One quiet Sunday night, Jay and I were sitting in the kitchen, when he asked me if I’d announced John’s death on Facebook. This was like asking in Latin if I knew Swedish. I am a techno-Luddite. I don’t know what uploading, downloading, or streaming