I bit my lip for a second, realizing that this was the kind of moment when I would just have to face up to my single situation. Telling Steve was different from telling someone like Bernie. He wasn’t in my first or second circle of friends—not that I’d told them either, or my mother. But Bernie was definitely on the C list.

“No, Dave and I broke up . . . a while back.” I gestured over my shoulder, as if it were way far back.

“Wow,” he said. “I’m shocked. I really thought you guys were doing the whole thing . . . all the way. He seemed so into you.”

“Yeah. Unfortunately he was sticking it into a lot more than just me.”

“Man, really? You know, I saw him once with this blond girl, at Starbucks . . . but I just let it go.”

I took this in. “You didn’t say hi or go up to him?”

“Er, no,” he stammered. “You know, I just figured . . . it was, you know, none of my business.”

Now he was not even looking me in the eye. He dug his hands into his pockets and started to draw something invisible on the linoleum floor of the produce aisle with the tip of his sneaker.

“You mean, you saw him and thought he was messing around on me and you didn’t even say anything?”

“It’s like I said,” Bernie managed. “I thought maybe they were just friends hanging out.”

“When do you ever go to Starbucks with a blond you’re ‘just friends’ with?”

He smiled. “Yeah, you’re right, but I just thought I should stay out of it.”

Bernie could tell that none of this was going over well with me, and as I took a deep breath to fuel my telling him off, he brightened, as if he had hit on an idea. “You know, if you’re back on the market, I know of this great guy to fix you up with. Are you up for it?”

I started to shake my head. “No way. No fix ups.”

“Hey, what do you have to lose? He’s a great guy. I’ve known him since college—we went to school at Columbia. He’s been a writer on The Simpsons for years, and he just signed a new deal with Fox to develop a new show.”

Now he’d piqued my interest a little. “A writer . . . really? So he’s funny?”

“He’s a frigging riot . . . and he’s Jewish,” he threw in.

I paused and thought about it for a half second. “Well . . . I don’t think just getting together for some coffee or something could really be that bad. And you’re saying he’s not a freak. He’s funny and Jewish and cool.”

“Yes, yes, and yes.” Now Bernie was feeling somewhat vindicated. “So I’ll give him your number, okay?”

“Okay.” He had talked me into it.