“What a horrible day it’s been,” Donald said, poking at his matzo ball with his spoon. His sandwich, was, as yet, untouched.

“Oh God, for us too!” Gayle blurted.

Donald looked up from his bowl of soup. “Really? Why?”

She looked like she was ready to spill the beans again, so I stepped in.

“Traffic,” I said.

“Really?” Donald looked puzzled “Where?”

“Everywhere.”

On Morrison Street, mainly.

Where there was an unusual pileup of parked vehicles.

Due to apparent rubbernecking, staking-out, perp-searching.

Gayle looked longingly for the waiter. I glanced at the back flap of my menu (lox and eggs; pastrami and eggs; salami and eggs; tongue on rye) and wanted to barf.

“Why was it so horrible for you?” I asked Donald, remembering suddenly that he was the one who had brought it up.

He continued to play with his food. “Well, first, you and I get into that stupid fight. And that depressed me. And then I come here and order all this food, which I shouldn’t eat.” He smiled at me, then reached out for my hand, but I moved it before he could touch me. Which seemed to instantly concern him: he had no idea why I was being so cold.

The waiter arrived; took Gayle’s order (soup; brisket sandwich on challah bread; extra coleslaw; one stuffed cabbage roll; cream soda); and mine (Diet Coke). I turned to look at Donald, decided it was truly time to watch him squirm.

“So, what did you do today?”

His eyes darted around the table; his hands reached for the sandwich. In seconds, after he took a huge bite out of it, his face was covered with pastrami, sauerkraut, Russian dressing. “Nothing much,” he said, his mouth full.

Nothing much. Just “visited” my ex-fiancée, dropped by her house, was up to no good.

“No really,” I said, sipping my Diet Coke, staring at him unrelentingly. “What did you do?”

He chewed desperately. “I don’t know. Drove around, mostly.”

“Really. Where?”

“Oh, just around. Nowhere really. Here and there.”

Here and there.