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“Exactly.” Her thin pale arms were resting at her sides, “Is that why it’s in a gallery and not in a theater?” “Most likely,” he stuck out his chest, “I really just wanted to meet the writer because he edits the fiction for a monthly magazine and I wanted to give him a copy of that story I gave you last week.” She nodded, “that will help him put a face to your name so—” “Yeah,” he interjected, “but what if the play is terrible—” “— It’s important that we go and put in an appearance at the very least.” While scratching his chin, “we can always sneak out during the intermission.” She pressed her palms together, “besides,” while interweaving her long thin fingers, “my bed is much larger than yours.” The couple seated across from them had just been served dessert. “How would you know that?” With a smile, “I think it’s a safe assumption,” as she placed the tip of her pointed shoe along his ankle, “and wouldn’t it be more interesting for you to find out for yourself … Mr. Intrusive?” He nodded, “let’s definitely leave at intermission.” She looked at his eyes while saying, “You know I really like that short story you gave me last week.” The story of the married architect (played by their waiter) who is having an affair with a young woman (played by the striking hostess who seated them) that he met on a Friday afternoon in early June of ’01. She blinked twice, “Is it true?” They were on their lunch hour. “Sort of,” he shrugged, “I mean I took the idea from something that,” then cleared his throat, “almost happened to someone I didn’t know very well.” The young woman was treating herself, with her first real paycheck in months, to a new pair of shoes. Raising her eyebrows, “Who?” The married architect was on his way to the bistro on the corner for a light lunch. Placing the napkin on the table, “the close friend of a friend of my,” then rubbed his clammy palms on his knees, “ex-girlfriend.” Sunlight warmed her legs as she sat before a broad storefront window on Mercer Street. She sounded both defensive and jealous while asking, “That actress?” The architect pocketed his wedding band while pacing the worn granite sidewalk. The waiter crossed in front of the audience on cue and presented her with the bill, “here you are,” before returning to his seat in the front row. Her long auburn hair fell onto her shoulders as she leaned forward to try on a pair of shoes. “I’ve got it,” he claimed. She walked out of the store with her purchase beneath her right arm. Taking her wallet out of the black purse, “now don’t be silly it’s on me,” that was hanging over the back of the metal chair, “remember this was my idea.” He had spent hours crafting the concisely written dialogue between the architect and the young woman as he convinced her to join him for lunch and their conversation over a shared salad niçoise and a bottle of Alsatian pinot blanc. “Well,” leaning back in the seat, “how much is it?” She gave him her phone number as they walked back to the building on Broadway where she was temping. She examined the bill, “it’s a bit pricey considering the quality of the ingredients,” in her right hand while muttering, “but don’t worry about that.” The affair was passionate and lasted until the end of August. He began to blush, “I’ll pay for the play,” as a sheepish grin covered his face. Dinners in posh restaurants, afternoon rendezvous in her Jackson Heights apartment and one weekend in East Hampton. “And the wine was,” she looked at him closely, “how many glasses did you have?” She discovered that she was pregnant in