“Yes,” she said. “I realize I’m talking a lot, but I don’t want you to think I’m nervous. Maybe I am, but I don’t want you to think I am. I skipped lunch today, and whenever I do that I get really wanged out. Also, I should tell you that I’m on Pritikin. My cholesterol is way up. I could have steamed vegetables or a little protein, like chicken. I mean, I’m not like a fanatic, I’m just trying out the Pritikin thing. Anyway, I don’t go totally over the edge with this, but I do like to know. To be educated in these things, so when I do choose to eat a refined sugar or an oil or an animal fat product, I at least know what I’m doing. That I’m turning my arteries to pizza. And no eggs, ever.”

“You don’t—” he said.

“Oh, and I haven’t had any caffeine since I started meditating a week ago,” she said.

“You don’t have any eating disorders, do you?” he said.

“Actually, I’m a failed anorexic,” she said. “I have anorexic thinking, but I can’t seem to muster the behavior.”

“I dated a girl for a while,” he said. “It turned out she was bulimic, which I didn’t know at the time, but she had a great body. I guess that’s how she did it.”

“I could never be bulimic,” she said. “I could never make myself throw up.”

“You’re so open,” he said. “I like that.”

“In a woman?” she said. “Listen, it’s too complicated to order something special. We’re at Pasta Hello, I’ll just have the lasagna.”

“You’re sure?” he said. “Great. Waiter, two lasagnas, a Heineken, and . . . ?”

“Diet Coke,” she said.

“And one Diet Coke,” he said. “Thanks. You know, it’s interesting, you mentioned meditating. A transcendental state on an intense person must be really interesting. I wouldn’t think I’d be one to have a mild transcendental experience. I think I’d go straight for satori. I’ve done some reading on Zen. Certainly, if you could get it through reading, I would have it. Of course, if you go by Zen, it always comes down to, ‘I could make the movie, or not.’ That whole ‘or not’ thing. It’s like, how many Buddhists does it take to screw in a light bulb? Fourteen—seven to do it, and seven not to.”

“Did you hear about the Polish starlet who came to Hollywood?” she said. “She slept with all the writers.”