“You told him that you were here with someone. Am I crashing a date you’re on right now? Or am I the person you’re here with?”

“No comment.”

“That means it’s me, right? Cool, cool. Got it.”

“Uh-oh. Sorry. Looks like you lost your dance partners.”

“Yeah. I think disinterestedly dancing while on the phone with someone else wasn’t doing it for them.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Hey, JD, I have an idea.”

“What’s that?”

“Wanna dance with me?”

“Oh, my God, Eliot, how many times do I have to—”

“No, I mean, you don’t have to show me who you are. Just maybe we could dance at the same time? You can be anywhere on the dance floor. I don’t care. But, like, let’s dance?”

“You’re kind of a manic pixie dream girl, you know that?”

“Can I take that as a compliment?”

“I’m not the boss of you. You can take it however you want.”

“Good. Are you on the dance floor yet?”

“Maybe.”

“Can you see me?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool. I might be Old Man River, but I’ve still got some moves, right?”

“You are . . . definitely cutting a rug.”

“You were wrong about me being a manic pixie dream girl. If I were, I’d be dancing like this.”

“Oh, my God! Stop that!”

“Yeah, wow. That’s hazardous. I’m getting dirty looks.”

“Probably because you’re the weirdo flailing on the dance floor while he talks on his cell phone.”

“And you’re not?”

“I don’t flail.”

“Yeah, you’re too cool to flail.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because of the way you sound. It’s pretty clear that you’re cool.”

“I do all right.”

“That’s what someone cool would say.”

And so we do this. For almost an hour. He’s staying on his side of the dance floor like a good little boy. And I stay on mine like a terrified little girl. I keep my back to him because I’m continually petrified that he’s going to glance up and recognize me. And if he sees me, I won’t be able to play it off. I’ll have the phone to my ear and the look on my face to prove it.