“Nothing,” I said, trying to suppress my desire to criticize, but I couldn’t. “You look like Linda Hunt in that shirt.”

She stopped short. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you look like Linda Hunt, in The Year of Living Dangerously.”

“When she played that little man, the one who jumps out of the window at the end?”

I nodded.

She covered her mouth with her hand in shame. “What must I do?” she whispered.

“Get rid of that shirt.”

She peered down at herself, touched the fabric. “But I love this shirt. Look,” she said, moving closer to me, as if to show me one of nature’s great miracles. ‘It’s so visually complex.”

“I don’t care. Get rid of it.”

“Yes, I see,” she said sadly. “Tomorrow.”

“No. Today. Please.”

You’d think I would have been unable to concentrate on anything but my crisis at hand—that morning’s fight with Donald about Adrienne—especially on something as meaningless as Gayle’s stupid shirt. But somehow, that’s all I could concentrate on at that moment. For had I focused on what was really going on— that I was, single-handedly and for seemingly no reason, destroying my relationship with Donald and risking our upcoming nuptials— I probably would have fallen face down on my bed and not been able to get up.

Which is exactly what I did when I followed Gayle upstairs to her dizzyingly “visually complex” bedroom, filled with raw silk curtains, deeply colored lampshades, patterned throws and rugs.

Still wearing the ridiculous shirt, she rushed over to me, bent down to see my face. “What is it?” she asked, her voice full of concern. “What is wrong with you?”

I moaned; turned my head away; felt myself starting to drool onto a beaded pillow. “My life,” I mumbled. “My life is a mess.”

She asked why; I explained.

Her brow became deeply furrowed. “Why are you doing this?” she asked.

“Doing what?”

“Ruining your life?”

She sat down on the edge of the bed, nudged me gently on the arm to get my attention. “Remember what I told you that morning in the car, on our way to pick Adrienne up at the airport?”

I rolled onto my back; stared at the antique reproduction Casablanca -inspired ceiling fan.

She nudged again. “Remember I told you that this whole situation was a test? A test of faith? Of trust? Of your love for Donald and his love for you?”

It seemed like years had passed since we’d had that conversation. I smoothed my palms over the sheets and comforter cover, and closed my eyes. I felt old suddenly. Old and very, very tired.

“Yes,” I finally answered. “So?”

“So?” She nudged again, harder this time. “So, you’re failing. You’re failing the test I told you you absolutely could not fail.”