I was suffering, in silence, barely eating a thing (I had the fat hangover, still, from that afternoon of watching Adrienne try on clothes), keeping away from the (fishy-smelling) fish and only picking at the artichokes and salad; I had my greens with the meal, thank you very much. And all the while, the fix-up with Adrienne and Terrance was going nicely. (Big surprise. Did anything not go well for Adrienne?) He was, of course, looking at her with huge, wet eyes, his mouth hanging open a little. But she barely noticed that aspect of his aspect. I assumed it was because any man who had ever seen her, sat with her, watched her get out of a car or sit down at a restaurant, shared a meal with her, had sex with her, or simply existed for any amount of time in the same general vicinity with her must have eventually exhibited the identical involuntary pathetic look of quiet desperation:

I love you.

Much was made of Adrienne’s impending move from Manhattan, her challenging new job at the National Gallery, and the rather extraordinary digs at the Kennedy-Warren she would soon be moving into, with Adrienne and Gayle regaling the table with anecdotes from the day in antiphony. First, Adrienne would describe something (“The apartment is big”). Then, Gayle would breathlessly embellish it (“The apartment is simply the biggest and most gorgeous flat I have ever seen in my whole life!”).

Terrance swooned. Donald was riveted.

I excused myself and left the room.

Wandering into the kitchen, pretending to be in desperate search of something I desperately needed (A butcher knife? A shotgun? Liquid arsenic which I could guzzle straight from the bottle?), I paced from stove to refrigerator to pantry and back again, still ruminating about why Adrienne unhinged me so.

Whatever her intentions were (and I was sure they were not good), did I really think Donald would leave me?

Sort of.

Did I really think he wanted her back?

Maybe.

Was I so insecure about our relationship and about love in general that I could imagine us so easily coming apart at the seams?

Apparently so.

After all, technically, despite what Donald had told me earlier that afternoon—which I phrased to myself now as: Adrienne is a slob and a spendthrift with no maternal instincts—he’d never said anything about not having feelings for her anymore.

Listening to the voices wafting in from the other room, I could hear Adrienne bantering back and forth with Donald (about what I couldn’t hear, but the tone of her voice was unmistakable) and flirting lightly—dallying, to be precise—with poor Terrance. And I could just imagine the mental calculations taking place in her head:

Terrance was sweet enough. Smart enough. Attractive enough. But not rich enough. Not interesting enough. Not substantial enough. And it was then that I suddenly realized what it all, ultimately, added up to: