“Sí. You’re right. I’m sorry to bother you, and like I said, I was just driving by and remembered we had been here. You remember cars more than the faces?”

“Everyone comes here from Beverly Hills, señora. All the women’s faces look the same.”

He smiled and I thanked him again.

Fucking Yellow Alert. Dave had been here, maybe with Cherry Red Mercedes. I drove home.

Inside my apartment, I checked the TiVo box. The red light was lit, letting me know it was still recording my show. I felt totally deflated. We should have been here, together, watching my show and getting ready for dessert when it was over.

I lay on the couch with a giant stomachache. When the show ended, I waited a few minutes and then went online. In my AOL inbox were messages from several friends who had watched the show. “MARILYN ROCKS!” and “I’m so proud of you” were the subject lines. But there was no e-mail from Dave. Earlier in the evening I’d sent him an e-mail saying I would miss waking up with him. We always stayed with each other on Saturday nights—except these last two. I checked to see if he had opened my e-mail. He had, at 6:20 PM. He had opened my e-mail, and he hadn’t responded. Maybe he thought I was trying to pressure him into canceling his plans and guilt him into coming over. I logged off.

I knew there was no way I could get to sleep, so I rummaged through my makeup drawer for my precious bottle of Ambien. My ear-nose-and-throat doctor had given me a prescription for ten pills back when I started traveling a lot, doing research. I had four left. I shook one pill into my hand and swallowed it dry. Then I remembered something about always taking pills with water or else they don’t run through your system, so I cupped my hand under the faucet and scooped water into my mouth like a kid. I was too lazy and depressed to walk into the kitchen and get a glass.

Just in case there was something wrong with my phone, I dialed in to check the messages. In addition to their e-mails, Lauren and Ina had called to tell me how much they’d liked the show. They’d left a joint voice mail, and it sounded as though they’d been drinking since noon.

“That mutilation murder scene at the top of the show is so you!”

“You’re the creepiest person we know!” Ina yelled in the background. “We love you!”

Before the two clicked off, Lauren added, “We’re sure you and Dave are having your own private celebration. Have fun!”

There had been no voice mail from Dave. I checked my cell phone, to make sure it was working, and there were no messages there either.