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Henry and I say in unison.
    The waitress walks away and I can’t contain my grin any longer.
    “Sydney Morrison, you’re awfully gleeful this morning,” Henry says. “If you weren’t dressed like you’re about to go out and shovel snow, I’d even say you look sexy. You’ve got a sparkle in your eye today that’s very suggestive.”
    “Do I now?” I say giggling. I’m still wearing the sweats I slept in. “Maybe I’ll break into Melanie’s apartment over winter vacation and borrow something fitted and revealing.”
    “Melanie’s a ho-bag,” Henry says. “She’s got nothing on you but confidence. If you would just relax and look in the mirror you’d see that you’re a Barbie doll that, unfortunately, some kid decided to dress in Ken’s jogging clothes.”
    Henry’s comment makes me blush more than a little. I keep my eyes on my mug of coffee, too shy to meet his. Without looking up I ask Henry if we can talk about the emails from Professor Sparling.
    “Hell, yeah,” Henry says. When I raise my head I see that he’s leaning back in his chair. He’s wearing khaki pants and his legs are open a little bit too wide. His black fitted sweater shows off his stellar chest and shoulders. And his sandy blonde hair falls down past his eyebrows almost straight into his bright blue eyes. He is so handsome. I don’t know why he never dates anyone seriously. He does hook up with women frequently, and I’m sure they all adore him. He’s kind, handsome, and very rich. What’s not to like? Since we’ve been friends Henry’s had dozens of one-night stands. He’s never interested in more than that, though. As he always says, “I’m a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am sort of guy.” I can’t really relate to that because I’m not into casual sex, and these past few years, I haven’t been into sex at all.
    Feeling a little bit embarrassed, I start to fiddle with the napkin dispenser on the table. It’s stainless steel and red and looks like a little house. Nervously, I pull out a few of the thin, waxy napkins. Henry puts his hand on mine. “Stop,” he says. “Next you’re going to start emptying sugar packets onto the table like a three-year-old.”
    I cross my arms over my chest and frown at Henry. I’m entitled to be nervous at a time like this.
    “Now you’re pouting like a three-year-old, too. Let’s grow up and get to the juicy stuff already.”
    Yes, the juicy stuff. I am definitely ready to talk about it. “Sparling is totally flirting with me,” I say in a whisper, as if I’m reporting something covert. “After the first email I wasn’t sure. But in the email he sent last night he told me to tell him everything I like about him, and not to be shy.”
    Henry snorts. “Don’t be shy … that’s such a bad line.”
    “You think?” I ask. “I sort of like the encouragement.”
    “I think a man with his literary talents can do better than that.”
    “So now you admit he has talents, eh?” I say.
    I’m overwhelmed by the fact that he’s writing to me at all. I’m not about to judge the literary quality of his emails. I mean, seriously, most people don’t even use punctuation in emails. A complete sentence in email is the equivalent of a masterpiece.
    “Well, whatever. I don’t care if he’s writing bad lines, Henry. I just want you to tell me if my reply to him is OK before I send it. I wrote a draft this morning.”
    “I’m all ears,” Henry says.
    “You promise you’ll tell me the truth?”
    Henry doesn’t answer. He points to the waitress coming out of the kitchen with our orders. “Food’s here,” he says.
    As the waitress reaches our table, I smell the food and it makes my stomach rumble. I am so hungry I almost forget about Professor Sparling for a minute. Who knew that was possible?
    “Enjoy your meal,” the waitress says. “Let me know if you need more coffee.”
    “More coffee would be great,” Henry says. “And we’re still waiting for our juice.”
    “Oh