I’m about to apologize when Cinderella bursts in: “We’re celebrating!” she says, lovably oblivious to the tension between us. “Here, have some champagne.”

Josie shakes her head and pushes away Cinderella’s hand. Champagne slops out of the glass and onto Cinderella’s shirt, and my assistant manager backs away as if she’s been slapped.

My protective instincts flare: Cinderella’s been putting on a brave face, but I know proposals make her think of her own broken vows; of the husband who left her in the most generic way possible: falling in love with his much younger secretary.

I turn back toward Josie, who has her hands on her hips, looking like a very beautiful, very rude nuisance. Still, I decide to be the bigger person and apologize.

“Josie,” I say, “I really—”

“Do you even have a liquor license?” she asks, somehow forgetting that she recently hosted an event with wine. “I could call the cops on you. Drunken and disorderly behavior and disturbing the peace!”

Any sympathy I have for Josie Klein and her stupid meditation event evaporates faster than the champagne on Cinderella’s shirt.

“Hey, Alan,” I say, keeping my eyes focused on Josie’s. “Why don’t you play another song. And make it loud.”

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