“I just got really sick to my stomach. Maybe it’s some sort of delayed food poisoning thing from last night.”

“Tell me again what you ate?” Dave asked.

I wanted to say that I had pasta and wine at Locanda Veneta, but I didn’t. “I had some whitefish special. I’m sorry, baby, I’m just not feeling good, and I think I’m just going to go back home to lie down.”

“Where are you now?”

“I’m on my way back from the drugstore. I went to pick up some Pepto.” Thinking fast.

“That sucks. Are you sure you don’t want me to come over?”

“No, it’s okay. It’s the kind of ‘being sick’ when you need to be alone, if you know what I mean.” Dave had a history of having a sensitive stomach, so I knew he’d be sympathetic, or at least squeamish.

“Okay, let me know if you want or need anything.”

“Okay, bye.”

He was being so sweet, and I knew there could be a million explanations for the receipt. It had been his signature . . . right? Now I wasn’t sure. I didn’t read the exact signature. After checking out the name of the restaurant and the amount, I guess I figured it was Dave’s. I thought I peripherally registered the strong slant of his signature, but now I couldn’t be certain. Maybe it wasn’t Dave’s receipt at all. Maybe it was just something he picked up by accident somewhere.

Trying to convince myself this was the truth, I chose to ignore that the receipt was from late last night and that we’d had brunch together twelve hours later. Maybe the date stamp was wrong from the restaurant. Maybe it had been thrown off by daylight savings time. I didn’t know when daylight savings time began, but messing with that kind of stuff could screw up timetables. Computers were sensitive.

Alone at home, I joylessly went through my nighttime routine. I defrosted something low-cal for dinner and opened a bottle of wine—just one glass, I told myself. I leafed through the latest issue of Angeleno magazine, tearing out an article on the new cellulite treatments available in town. I didn’t really watch The Sopranos. I let the show run, with the volume turned down too low to hear clearly and follow.

Every hour I’d leave my perch on the couch and check my e-mail.

There was nothing from Dave. I had told him I was sick; he could have called or e-mailed or something. Motherfucker.