His eyes bug out. “Wait . . . did Mary pay you in weed? Does she use weed as currency?”

“No, but it was a job perk. Like health insurance.”

“Is that really what you miss most about LA?”

At the moment? I think, shocking myself, I miss nothing.

“Don’t say the beach or the weather or the people,” he adds.

“Did you just tell me how to answer?”

“I’m narrowing the scope. Those are too obvious. Surprise me.”

“Okay . . . I miss beer-can chicken from A-Frame in Culver City. Pork fried rice, and pickles, and street corn.”

“Can I tell you a secret? A little-known fact about New York?” Miles motions for me to come closer, and when I lean in, he continues, “We have restaurants here too. Crazy, I know.”

“Do you ever,” I concede. “I got takeout from this amazing place, Remedy Diner, the other day. Next time I order, we could split something.”

He blinks and I realize I’ve assumed way too many things about our situation. I quickly backtrack. “I mean, you wouldn’t have to come over—it would just be convenient to share if I’m already calling them. You know, split the delivery cost.” I don’t give him time to respond before I continue. “As for LA, what I miss is awards season.”

“Awards season?” he teases me. “Since you don’t have weather seasons?”

“Do so. But I like the Golden Globes the best, the most freewheeling one—”

“The drunk one,” Miles clarifies.

“. . . and the most likely to purchase Mary’s jokes.” She rarely attended in person, preferring to stay home with me, create themed menus, and break out the champagne cocktails at eight a.m. We’d make a day of it, beginning with red-carpet coverage and taking note of which of her submissions made the cut. A couple of her fans on Twitter always tried to guess which zinger had Mary’s name on it.

The room is dark now that the furniture’s motion detector light isn’t being, er, activated.

“Where are the lamps in this place?” Miles wonders, getting up.

“I thought I saw a switch by the mirror. . . .”

He moves toward it and flicks the switch. Oddly, the mirror remains dark but a chair on the other side of the room lights up.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Miles says under his breath.

It becomes a game; who can find the most pointless light source.

I locate a switch under a desk. Does it correspond to the desk lamp? Of course not; it’s connected to the headboard. We spend the next few minutes turning on the furniture. The room remains mostly shadowed.

“Let me guess, the coffee machine connects to the TV,” Miles says.

I spin in a circle, taking in the small, frightfully hipsterish room. “There is no TV.”

He falls dramatically to his knees and raises a mock fist. “Nooooooo.”

I flop back onto the couch, triggering the armrest light, and laugh.