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about some of it, and asked him to tell me what he remembered about Laura.
    â€œI met her your senior year, right?”
    â€œWas it?”
    â€œShe was really quite stunning. And she spoke impeccable French.”
    â€œYou remember that?”
    â€œShe eloped with a jazz musician, didn’t she?”
    Traffic started moving a little faster, and when we were a few blocks farther along, I told Alex about Marian, and he told me he wasn’t in the least surprised.
    â€œShe falls into your three basic food groups, doesn’t she.”
    â€œOnly two.”
    â€œThree.” He counted on his fingers: “You’re attracted to a woman who’s got a boyfriend, which, along with your own, shall we say, situation with Rita, poses no threat of your actually having a relationship with her. Two: Since you can’t act on your infatuation—”
    â€œIt goes deeper than infatuation.”
    â€œIt still makes her and your feelings about her ultimately disposable.”
    I couldn’t argue with him, so all I said was, “I guess I’d just better forget about her.”
    â€œAnd forgetting about her is the third. ”
    I t was after one in the morning when Alex dropped me off. The phone started ringing as soon as I was in my apartment. It was Simon’s Howie Greenberg, wanting to know if Simon was there—but not before apologizing for calling so late. He was in L.A., and the time difference had confused him.
    When I said that Simon wasn’t here, Howie told me, “Well, if you’re smart, you won’t believe a word he says”—his voice wasn’t loud but it was firm—“or you’ll never get rid of him.”
    I was about to hang up.
    â€œAnd whatever you do”—his voice was louder now—“don’t sign anything.”
    I told him I’d be sure not to, and again was about to hang up, when I heard him yell for me to wait. “And tell the little fuck I want the two months’ rent he owes me and the seventy dollars he stole from my wallet. Oh yes.” And the line went dead.
    Early the following morning Simon called. He said it was urgent that he see me. I told him I was still in bed.
    â€œBy the way, one of your friends called. Howie Greenberg.”
    â€œWhat did he say?”
    â€œWhy the hell do you do these things to yourself? You’re better than that.” I hung up and went back to sleep.
    I’d told Alex that I might as well forget about Marian, but I could not forget about her. Not that I did anything about it, except go on imagining meeting her places, spending the night at my apartment, or a weekend at one of the little boutique hotels in town. Maybe an entire week, showing her the city, hearing her laughter, seeing the same expression on her face that I’d seen the first time; and feeling the agitation of attraction, when her hand might touch my wrist as it did that night; all the nerve-wracking uncertainties of a new romance.
    But I was really no better than Alex’s narcissists. Marian’s closest friend had died, and the best I could do was flirt with her and indulge an infatuation. Worse, the fantasy of an infatuation. I never really stopped being aware of that. Yet, I still kept thinking about her. Even when I was with my girlfriend, Rita D’Angellis, the situation to which Alex referred.
    A few nights after I saw Alex, Rita and I had dinner at a small Vietnamese restaurant on the Upper East Side, sharing a plate of salt and pepper squid and a couple of beers, a ritual of ours.
    Rita and I had been seeing each other for about three years in what we both considered as exclusive a relationship as either of us was interested in having. Rita edited cookbooks for a large publishing house, and whatever restaurant we went to, the staff knew her and made a fuss. It was always a good time.
    After dinner she asked me where I’d been. I started to answer that she knew I was going up