Charlie took some pride in knowing his way around sophisticated menus. He wasn’t a “foodie” but he certainly was conversant with the right do’s and don’ts in food and wine. Sure, he would have a grilled cheese at two in the morning and watch a rerun of a hockey game. But when he was at a good New York restaurant Charlie knew exactly what to order.

“Okay. I’ll have the dumplings and the ribs to start,” Frankie said emphatically.

“If you’re insisting on Cantonese, get the shrimp balls. Trust me.”

“You’re right. Let’s get the shrimp balls.”

Since Charlie and Samantha had separated he had been fixed up by friends with what seemed like an unending stream of you’ve-got-to-meet and you’re-gonna-love women. They ranged from thirty-year-old high-powered Wall Street lawyers, to twenty-something models, to well-to-do forty-something Park Avenue divorcées. He would see them for dinner once or twice. Within two weeks there were inevitable little chats about future dinner parties, trips to Barbados, and his feelings about commitment. Charlie thought all these women were much more interested in fulfilling their own expectations than actually getting to know him. At least he felt that he and Frankie had a real bond. They were old friends and he felt that he had very carefully made certain there were no other agendas.

“We’ll have the shrimp balls, the thousand-year-old egg, the black cod that’s not on the menu—tell the chef to do it with ginger and bok choy—the ants climbing a tree, and steam for us some light crunchy green vegetables, no MSG,” Charlie rattled off to the waiter.

“Yes sir.” The waiter walked off.

“Ants climbing on trees?” Frankie asked.

“Uh-huh. Fried ants on slices of birch.” Charlie took a sip of his martini. “Then they cook it all in Mr. Clean.”

Frankie smiled. “Sounds refreshing.”

Charlie thought Frankie had sad eyes. He didn’t know if it was because, for all her accomplishments and even humor, she lacked access to her own sensuality. He enjoyed sleeping with her because it was comforting but never exciting. He looked forward to the cuddling afterward more than the penetration. As Charlie looked at her tonight he decided the sadness came from her own sense of duty. It wasn’t that Frankie couldn’t be entertaining, but she could never allow herself the ease or narcissism of Samantha’s fizz.

“I was glad they dedicated the performance tonight to Jennifer Rose,” Frankie said, breaking the silence. “Her mother’s devastated. I can’t imagine anything worse.”

“Jil. That’s worse,” he said.

“Too much loss, Charlie. Too much loss.” Frankie felt a lump in her throat. “I hate the times we’re living in.”