The e-postcard in question, the one we’re supposed to save as proof that Clifford used to be normal (?) prior to the caterpillar bite, is from a “wacky photo booth” at the Online Romance International Federation’s International Conference of Executives, apparently taking place in Pennsylvania. Clifford wears a Groucho Marx glasses-and-nose mask as well as a feather boa in front of a whimsical backdrop, while standing under a sign that reads ORIFICE and pointing up at it, laughing.

Two days after I sent Mary my ideas for her one-woman play, she arrives at my/her/the apartment with takeout from Remedy Diner, a heavenly mixture of roast turkey and brie sandwiches with truffle mac and cheese on the side. Between this meal and my far-too-regular visits to Cheese, it may be time to admit I’ve developed a dairy dependency.

Also, it pains me to admit it but NYC’s takeout beats LA’s. I should poll Miles about his favorite places since we’re next-door neighbors and could conceivably go halves on something sometime. Then again, that would involve me conceding that something about his city is superior to mine and I’m not eager to hear his smug response.

Mary doesn’t bring up my e-mail so I’m not sure she’s seen it. E-mail’s never been her strong suit; when I worked for her, she once hit reply all to a group message with a picture of a rash that she thought looked like Al Capone, only to discover the entire production office of The Ellen Show had opinions. The thread went on for days and we got very little else done that week.

After we’ve settled in with our decadently gooey food, I hand her the bound copy of her play, my notes written neatly in the margins.

“What’s this?” she asks.

“Your play.”

She continues eating. “Did you think I might be running low on copies?”

“No, this is . . . these are my suggestions for it.”

“Right, I got your e-mail.”

“Oh.” I’m surprised she never responded, but then again, she’s been really busy. “You probably haven’t had a chance to read it. . . .”

“I read it.”

I look up, nervous and confused.

“But as I said before, it’s not for you to worry about,” she says, and it finally dawns on me: She hated my notes. Hated them.

Oh my God.

What if she always did?

Was that the reason for the apartment, the new life, the push out the door? It’s so obvious! She sent me to New York to get rid of me with a clear conscience because she couldn’t justify keeping me as an employee when my ideas were this bad. And because she’s softhearted, she wanted to make sure I’d be okay.