It was with that suddenly long-lost sense of gratitude that I tried to regard Donald and the situation we were now in, from my spying perch just outside the kitchen.

Staring at the strewn and discarded books and magazines that I’d brought with me when I moved in (though rarely referred to or used: I had my own problems with cooking), I wondered what it was about Julia Child and Martha Stewart and Gourmet and Food & Wine that was so wrong, so imperfect, so not-special-enough-or-good-enough for our dinner with Adrienne. Tempted to raise the issue—his invitation and what it meant to the future of our relationship and my sanity—I realized what the consequences would be if I did so.

First, we’d be up all night arguing, with Donald pacing dramatically and gesticulating and explicating each sentence of his earlier conversation with Adrienne and then each sentence of our current argument (he had, at one time, briefly considered a career in the theater). All of which would end with him having a complete emotional collapse and pulling his pants down (frustration was only one feeling he expressed through pulling his pants down. Sometimes it was joy. Or annoyance. Or simply to entertain me by catching me off guard: pants down around his ankles, T-shirt stretched over his head like a turban, occasionally with the flourish of a pair of boxers on his head like a chef’s toque).

Second, I would demand that he retract his dinner invitation, which would make my offer to take Adrienne apartment-hunting and to lunch moot. I knew he would agree to this by the wee hours of the morning—in order to shut me up and end the fighting.

Third, and perhaps most importantly—perhaps what it was that kept me from opening my big fat mouth and making him feel terrible when in reality, he didn’t deserve to (he was just trying to be nice: hoping we could all become friends; trying to inject into the universe the good karma an act of kindness and maturity such as that could produce. Who was I to deny him that?)—was this: I would, as any of the zillion relationship self-help books I’d edited would explain, reveal too much. Insecurity. Paranoia. Neurosis. It would all come seeping, leaking out. Which would, thereby, cause me not only to risk complete rejection, but also cause me to relinquish too much power: Donald would know then (if he didn’t already) how much Adrienne bothered me, and it would make me look small-minded and bitchy.

Not to mention the fact that it would also make her even more of a forbidden pleasure than she already was. Which, if nothing else, would drive him into her arms.

So I decided for once, for the moment, to keep my mouth shut, to say nothing of my displeasure about the plans for the weekend. I would be supportive, accommodating, and gracious. I would help Adrienne in her search for the perfect apartment. I would take her out for a perfect lunch. I would even shop for Donald’s perfect grilled dinner. Taking a deep breath and striding into the kitchen as if I hadn’t been eavesdropping and lurking outside of it all along, I told Donald to call Adrienne in the morning and tell her I would meet her shuttle flight at National Airport that Saturday morning and that I would happily be her host for the rest of the day in our nation’s capital.