Since I didn’t get my hair done like I’d originally planned, I stand in front of the mirror and pull my ponytail on top of my head and twist it into a knot. But the knot is too tight, so I loosen it and make a tornado bun in the same spot. I wonder what Randall and I will talk about over dinner. We’re going to Sausalito. I look down at the pills. We might have to cross two long bridges. Maybe one wouldn’t hurt. The restaurant will probably be on the water. My head is starting to throb. I’ll eat lobster. Maybe I’m getting a headache. I wonder, will he be as interesting with his hands out of dirt? Maybe I just need one. To take the edge off. How much fun will I be like this? I want to ask him more about his daughter. Tell him about my son. How does he handle being a parent? Now my temples are throbbing. This feels like a migraine. But I’ve never had one before. Why now, Paris? What is your problem? My hands are clammy. And then I sneeze. I wonder if I’m catching a cold? Damnit. I can’t go out if I’m getting sick. I wouldn’t want to give this to him. Stop it, Paris. I know I’m not catching any cold. And my head isn’t really hurting either. I want it to hurt. I want to be sick, so I won’t have to face the music. And just what music might that be, Paris? Is it blues or jazz or light rock? Is it rap or classical or R&B? What’s so hard about facing the fucking music, Paris? Huh?

I fall back on the bed, and as soon as I do I feel those pills pressing against my damp skin. I roll over and snatch them up by ones, twos, threes, until they’re all in my right hand, and then I march into the bathroom and flush every single one of them down the toilet. When I hear the doorbell I feel a sudden surge of energy. In fact, I feel as if I’ve been given some kind of emotional charge. I press the intercom and tell Randall to come on in, that I’ll be right out. As I slide into the pretty peach slip dress I bought in London, for some strange reason I imagine myself telling him the truth about what I’m going through, and by the time I pull the straps on my slingbacks, I’m pretty certain I will. What’s the point of starting any relationship with a lie, even if all we end up being is friends? Besides, he was honest with me about his situation, and if the truth doesn’t scare him off, and he’s still as interesting to me as I am to him, hopefully we’ll have a whole lot more to talk about on the ride home and I won’t mind how many bridges we have to cross.

Help

“How do this work?” I ask.