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the forearm.
    â€œI didn’t think you got the quote earlier.”
    â€œRight,” I said. “You didn’t think I knew Ghostbusters ?”
    â€œWell, you’d be surprised.”
    â€œIt helps to know films when you want to be a screenwriter.”
    â€œWhat do you mean you want to be a screenwriter?”
    â€œI mean I hope to make a living writing films someday.”
    â€œSo you haven’t written anything yet?”
    â€œWell, yeah. I finished one a couple of months ago. But—”
    â€œI’d say if you’ve written a screenplay, that already makes you a screenwriter, doesn’t it?”
    This made me smile. How could it not?
    â€œAnd what do you want to be when you grow up, my dear?”
    â€œI always wanted to be an eye doctor,” Gloria said. “That’s why I’m majoring in economics.”
    â€œBut all an eye doctor does is sit behind that big robot-looking machine going: One or two? One or two? Is this better? Or this?”
    â€œI know, right? But I’m such a sucker for blue eyes. I’d love to get paid to look at them all day long.”
    â€œLook at them? Or shoot air into them? That’s the part I hate the worst, the glaucoma test. ‘Ready? Don’t flinch!’”
    â€œAnd then you sit there in a dead panic.”
    â€œWaiting.”
    â€œLike, ‘Hey. Stand real still while I swing this bat at your kneecaps.’”
    â€œSo what you’re saying is you’re a sadist.”
    Gloria leaned close as she whispered into my ear. Her breath tickled the little hairs there.
    â€œShhh,” she said. “That’s a secret, dear.”
    The thing is, when you’re busy falling in love, you don’t imagine what it will be like twelve years later, when you spend your Sunday afternoons in different rooms doing different things. There’s a reason love stories are written about the chase and not what comes after. Because what comes after is wordlessly gathering the trash while your wife unloads the dishwasher. It’s putting away laundry while she makes dinner. And anymore Gloria never prepares the simple and hearty meals of our twenties—like spaghetti and meatballs, or fried chicken and mashed potatoes. It’s always gourmet-style these days. Two nights ago we had braised lamb over a bed of rice and greens to garnish. Today it’s marinated tuna. Which is all great, but maybe tomorrow I’ll come home from work early and surprise her with something old school, like Hamburger Helper. I love Hamburger Helper.
    I’m in the closet, hanging up clothes, when my phone vibrates in my back pocket. It’s a text message from my friend Sophia.

    Call back on Friday not so good. Casting director was a bitch and I think she hated me. I fucked up the word “rear.” How’s your weekend?

    I can’t remember if I’ve told you about Sophia yet. Lately I get confused about what has transpired and what is yet to happen, so skip the next paragraph if I already mentioned this.
    Sophia is an aspiring actress who lives in Los Angeles. I actually met her on Facebook, and in fact she’s the very first online person I ever became friends with in the real world. By real world I mean we talk on the phone all the time. She’s one of the wittiest and most intelligent people I know, hilarious and in touch with pop culture the way few people are. Unfortunately, of all the things Sophia has going for her, the one thing she cannot claim is the prototypical Hollywood look, and despite everything else, lacking that one attribute has made it difficult for her to find steady work. She is somewhat overweight and a bit…well…homely. I feel terrible saying that, but it’s the truth.
    I write back:

    Bit of a weird weekend. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow. Sorry about the call back. I’m sure the casting director didn’t hate you. Drama queen. ;-)

    Then I go