“God, you look fantastic!” Donald effused, taking her in from head to toe. “Really fantastic!”

Adrienne struck a pose. “Do I?” She stepped back an inch or two so Donald could get a better look in order to properly reassure her.

Which he did.

Pavlov’s dog redux.

“Oh yes! Really! Fantastic!” He sounded giddy. Clearly, he was having trouble forming complete sentences. It wasn’t every day that such a hot number was in his foyer, looking to reconnect with him.

“Thanks.” She smiled. Of course I look fantastic . And then she added: “So do you.”

Surprised, and thrilled, I knew, by the compliment—he looked fantastic too!—and always in search of feedback about his physical appearance, Donald stopped short, ran his hands over his cashmere-sweatered chest, hips, stomach, abdomen.

“Really?”

I could’ve sworn I saw her wink.

Donald ran his hands over himself again, just to be sure. “Well, I do work at it. I watch what I eat. I exercise regularly— every day, in fact. Actually, yesterday I did a full hour on the StairMaster.” Nervously, he looked in my direction and saw the expression on my face: excruciating boredom. “Sorry. Elise hates when I talk about my weight.”

I was annoyed. Though it probably was not his intention, he was casting me in the role of the unsupportive woman, the sort of unsympathetic shrew who would, years from now (or, at this rate, months from now), provoke him to whisper to any girl half my age who would listen, “My wife doesn’t understand me.” And though all attempts would undoubtedly be futile, I knew I had to at least try to defend myself.

“I do not,” I said.

“Yes you do.”

“I do not!”

“You do so!”

We were like three-year-olds bickering in front of the babysitter.

Donald turned, then, to Adrienne. “And I don’t blame her, since I talk about it all the time. I’m kind of neurotic about my weight, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Kind of?

“Kind of?” Adrienne said, echoing my inner thoughts. “You’ve always been more than a little obsessed with your weight.”

Donald blushed.

She smiled, grabbed his arm. I had a hunch there would be a quick trip down memory lane. “Remember that time you bought three scales in one week? Because you were convinced that each one was wrong?”

“Well, they were wrong,” Donald said, a cloud of seriousness drifting over his face as if the event they were discussing had happened yesterday instead of more than several years ago. “I mean, I did not weigh two hundred and thirty-three pounds.”

“Of course you didn’t,” she reassured.

“I mean, it was a physical impossibility.”

“Of course it was.”

“There are linebackers in the NFL who don’t weigh two hundred and thirty-three pounds.”

“I know.”

“Which is why that whole incident at the doctor’s office wasn’t my fault.”

I shifted uncomfortably, waiting for someone to fill me in.

Adrienne turned to me. “He went for a checkup, and as part of his routine physical exam, the nurse weighed him.”