was planning on alphabetizing my CDs.”
“Nice try, but we both know they’re already alphabetized.”
“Not by genre.”
I said nothing.
“Seriously, I’m sorry, Lena—I have to watch Crumbcake tonight. She had some tests at the vet today and she’s wearing one of those lovely doggie cones around her neck. It’s a pathetic sight, really.”
Crumbcake was Miranda’s dog. Correction, “Gateau” was her dog; Crumbcake was what Jake had rechristened her. She was bony and loud, with a bracing bark that could sound both whiny and critical. In other words, she was Miranda.
“Bring her with you.” I knew then that I was, legitimately and officially, panicked.
“But she hates you, Lena.”
“True.” He had a point.
“Plus, Miranda will find out and then I’ll have to deal.”
I imagined Crumbcake and Miranda having a furious and intense discussion of her trauma.
“I know, I’ll ask Super Si to watch her,” I said. Si was my super and on more occasions than I care to remember, I had called on him to chase cockroaches around my apartment, fish a necklace out of the drain, and perform various forms of spackling triage on my crumbling walls. I call him Super Si because he’s a super and because, well, he’s super. I tried to explain this to him once, but it didn’t translate, like so many thoughts I had, when said out loud.
“God, Jake—for fuck’s sake, get over here.”
“Is there really a need to swear and use the Lord’s name in vain? I think one or the other would suffice.”
“Jake—it’s so not the time.”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry—I’ll vespa right over.” For the record, Jake did not have a Vespa, but he felt that he really should have one. No, he had a used ten-speed.
I felt calmer instantly. Jake’s skill with a closet was akin to a natural chef’s ability to transform saltines, ketchup and canned tuna into a sumptuous feast.
Exactly fifteen minutes later, Jake arrived. Head-to-toe Paul Smith. An irate Crumbcake accessory was the only thing that detracted from his perfection.
“You look…perfect,” I said with a mixture of envy and admiration.
Jake, oh so modestly, made an exaggerated, Mark Vanderloo-esque turn.
“I really, really do—don’t I?”
He was only half kidding.
“But there is one, reluctant concession.” Jake pulled from his pocket a gleaming gray silk tie like a magician displaying his hidden string of scarves. Jake didn’t do ties. I was touched. “Just in case.”
“So, how casual is casual?” he asked as he made his way to the kitchen to deposit Crumbcake.
“Therein lies my predicament—I’m not sure.”
“Do we have any clues? Indicators?”
“None,” I responded solemnly. “She just said that it was a benefit for a children’s zoo and that it was…casual.”
A somber tone had overtaken us both. We could have been talking about global warming, missile treaties, or maybe the ethical consequences of human cloning.
“I see, so it’s ‘casual,’ but not casual.” He seemed to have gleaned a key piece of information.
“Maybe I should just call and ask?”
“Better you show up nude. Then she’ll really know you’re a neophyte.”
“Do we have to resort to name-calling?”
“I don’t think you’re a neophyte—and all the better if you are. I’m channeling the mind-set of a sixty-year-old socialite, that’s all.” He shook off the thought with a chill.
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