I’m so gobsmacked by her belief that my apartment is spacious that I’m rendered mute. Besides my broken toe, my shins are littered with bruises from knocking into things because there is nowhere to stand. Also, I can’t exactly tell her my old boss owns the building and has knocked 50 percent off my monthly rent, because that might lead to telling her who my old boss IS by pointing to the woman on her T-shirt. Her level of Undersea fandom would not recover from that information, and we have tasks to complete today. As much as I love the idea of pretending we’re friends on a lunch date, the truth is we’re on a mission.

Luckily, the waitress appears and introduces herself before my silence becomes prolonged. Each person on the waitstaff, she explains, goes not by name but by favorite menu item. “I’m Cheesy Nuggets, and I’ll be taking care of you today.” (And indeed, her name tag reads “Cheesy Nuggets.”)

Cheesy Nuggets explains that Cheese is an experimental pop-up specializing in grilled cheese sandwiches and fondue. Since it’s on my “company card,” I tell Bree to order anything that catches her eye. We both want the extra sharp cheddar toasties with jalapeños, and cheesy tater tots on the side, and she also asks for goat cheese with raspberries and syrup on top.

When Cheesy Nuggets leaves, Bree pours wine in my glass and we clink together.

“I need to stop hitting the sauce,” she says, while hitting the sauce. “I think it’s the cause of all my problems, honestly.” She frowns. “Not all-all my problems, just my relationship problems. It’s fine if I drink with you, or my girlfriends after work or whatever. But with dudes? Ugggggh. Because if I’m feeling relaxed and giddy and uninhibited, it’s over way too soon, you know what I mean?

“I don’t have regrets, don’t get me wrong,” she continues. “I partied a lot after college, and it was fun, but I think I’m done with that phase of my life. I’m at the quarter-centch mark, you know? Everyone knows if you don’t lock down a husband by the time you’re twenty-nine in New York it’s, like, not happening. Because why would they date an almost-thirty-year-old when there are a kajillion twenty-two-year-olds running around the place who are like, fertile? I really need to find a quality guy. Because my dick picker’s—”

“Broken. Right.” I’m not likely to forget that phrase anytime soon.

“There’s nothing wrong with the dicks themselves, just what they’re attached to. Here, let me show you—”

Before I can demur, her phone’s out and floating about two inches from my face. She scrolls rapidly with her forefinger: dick pic, after dick pic, after dick pic.

“It’s okay,” I squeak. “I don’t need to—”