Once I was in bed I told myself that I’d never think, let alone embroider, about Edgar ever again. Of course, vowing not to think about someone is the most surefire route to being up all night rolling out every conceivable outcome, from a transatlantic marriage in which I’d only wear my crown to work occasionally; to a furtive few weekends every year, after Edgar’s married a crown prince from another country but keeps texting that he only loves me; to Edgar abdicating and the two of us living off the grid in Madagascar, only my version of living off the grid always requires a marble bathroom with heated towel bars and a jetted tub along with access to American milk chocolate with almonds.

In order to grab even an hour’s sleep I asked Ruth Ginsburg if she thought Edgar and I had any conceivable future. She replied, “Sweetheart, you had a momentary encounter with a prince, and if there’s one immutable law of the universe, it’s that princes don’t end up with associate event architects from New Jersey. The proof of this is that you’re under the covers in your Hell’s Kitchen bedroom making up a conversation with a photograph. But maybe the universe let you meet Prince Edgar to give you a nudge and remind you to get back out there. Are you even listening to me, or are you already watching porn on your laptop? Why do I even bother?”

By the next morning I’d decided that my flirtation with Prince Edgar was officially an urban legend, like the alligators swarming the sewers or a one-bedroom apartment with lots of light renting for under a thousand dollars. Since it was Saturday, I went about the critical business of updating my photos and profile and downloading three new dating apps.

I’d been off the market for years, although after our breakup, I found out that Callum had never deleted any of his profiles the whole time we were together. As revenge, when I took new pictures of myself in Central Park, I used an advanced form of Photoshop to rework my chin, then decided not to, since I didn’t want any guy I might meet to keep staring at my face, wondering, “Did it grow back?” My first profile drafts included the phrases “Bitter, angry and cheated on—how about coffee?”, “I used to believe in love but now I’d like to tell you at great length why I don’t” and “I met Prince Edgar, you have to believe me.” After deleting all of these I went with something generic: “Let’s see what happens.”

Over the next two weeks, I had combinations of Starbucks lattes, dinner-and-a-movie-neither-of-us-really-wanted-to-see and not-great-what-did-I-expect sex with the following people:

• A Google product manager who was cute and sweet but slouched a lot and got very haughty about people who were still playing video games I’d never heard of.