“Of course he’s jealous of your car. I mean, you’re a teacher and you drive a BMW 740, remember?”

“But he drives a Saab Turbo convertible.”

I tried again. “Well, is he short?”

“No, not particularly. He’s shorter than me, of course, but he’s at least six feet. He’s one of the varsity basketball coaches.”

I was at a loss. I had no idea why this guy had made fun of Donald. Plus, I was losing my patience, distracted because I was supposed to have made a big dent over the weekend in The Misunderstood Calorie: Why Fat Doesn’t Make You Fat. As usual, I was way behind. I eyed the pile of pages across the room on the counter next to all the bagels and lox and cream cheese waiting to be put away. Fat didn’t make you fat. Would the absurdity never end?

“Maybe it was something about the way I was dressed. Or the way I was physically getting out of the car. Do I look funny when I get out of the car?” He thought a minute, exhaled, shook his head. “And Terrance is bugging me a lot, too, lately.”

Aha.

“He’s always cornering me in the hallway, or in the teacher’s lounge, telling me about Adrienne: what they did, where they went; asking me about what I think it means when she said this or did that. As if I know. As if I have a blueprint of what goes on in her head.”

As if he’d give it up and hand it over to Terrance if he did.

“It’s driving me crazy.”

I’ll bet it was.

“They’re seeing a lot of each other?” I asked.

“Once, twice a week, he says.”

“You think it’ll get serious?”

He rolled his eyes, looked at me like I should know better. “Honey! Come on!” He laughed too loudly, humorlessly. “I mean, he’s a little out of his league!”

A little? I called that shot a long time ago.

“He doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going!” Donald laughed again. “I don’t think he knows what he’s gotten himself into. I mean, she’s . . . she’ll . . .” He shook his head: apparently he knew all too well what Terrance was in for. “A month from now, two months from now, she’ll have him wound so tightly around her little finger he won’t even remember his own name.” He sat back in his chair, sighed, looked sad. “Plus—” he started.

“Plus what?”

“Plus, I miss Lucy. I’m not used to not having her around.”

I sat down at the table with him, surprised at how rational, how unflappable the New Me was.

The Old Me, of course, would have gone crazy by now, mad with suspicion and paranoia.

But not the New Me.