Strad hesitates only a moment, and then says, “Sure. I have a few minutes.”

Lily pays the bill and they walk to the Building of Piano Rooms two blocks away.

They rent a small room. She feels a little uncomfortable, as though they’re booking a hotel room for sex, which of course she would much prefer.

The room contains nothing but a piano and two chairs. In her state of mind, it feels grim and seedy. The piano is giving off the vibe of a bed. She knows that’s just her perception, skewed by years of longing and frustration. In actuality, the space looks like a miniature classroom.

Strad sits on a white plastic chair near her.

She will play exquisitely. She wants him to be in awe. She’s not sure this is the most effective path to love, but she knows of no other way. If she can incite in him a very intense degree of admiration, perhaps the leap to adoration will be possible.

“What do you want me to beautify?” she asks.

He looks confused. “I thought there was a piece you wanted to play for me, to get my opinion.”

“Right.” She forgot. “But I need you to pick something randomly for me to beautify. I need to know how well I perform when I’m not prepared. That’s what I need your opinion on.”

“Okay. How about a pen or something?” he says, tapping his pockets. “Do you have one?”

She takes a ballpoint pen out of her purse and places it on the music stand. “Before we start, pay attention to your feelings toward the pen. Form an opinion of it. On a scale of zero to ten, how impressed are you with the pen right now?”

“I guess . . . zero. No offense, I hope.”

“No, of course not.”

She focuses on the pen.

This is more important to her than any concert she has ever played. She takes a deep breath and begins a piece for the pen.

After a minute, the pen starts looking poetic. As Lily keeps playing, the pen acquires depth. Gradually, it comes to represent the epitome of human thought, of human invention.

“Hey, that’s wild! It really does look better,” Strad says. “It’s like looking at a pen in a movie. A dramatic movie with beautiful sets and costumes. It’s like the pen suddenly has a story, or a history. How’d you do that?” He looks at Lily ardently, and before she can answer, he says, “I’m sure you’ll understand when I say I need to get to a stationery store urgently.” He laughs. Putting on his coat, he adds, “That is so impressive, that you were able to develop this skill. You could have a lot of fun with it. You’re very talented.”

She gives him a sad smile and mumbles thanks.

“No, thank you for playing me your stuff. It was a blast!” he says. “I love it.”

Sure, he loves it. But he doesn’t love her.

Outside the Building of Piano Rooms, they say goodbye and each go their own way.

She walks in the cold, briskly at first. Sniffling, she tilts her head back and looks up, helping gravity sink the tears back into her lovely but unfortunately positioned eyes.

Lily heads back to Union Square. She walks through the park, slowly, looking down, gazing at the leaves in her path—golden, crispy leaves, now transformed into a rotting mush. She listens to the cars rolling through puddles. She feels lonely. She sees homeless people. She sits on a bench, holding onto its cold arm.

She remains sitting there for quite a while, and then calls me to meet her.

As I’m walking toward her, seeing her looking so lost in the surrounding grayness, I can’t help but think of Gabriel.

“I gave him my best performance,” she says.

I nod.

“Why did I think Strad would be any different?” she goes on. “It’s not as if I ever see any interest in the eyes of any man I ever meet. Ever.”

That’s when she tells me about her meeting with Strad, about how he was being his usual self: casual, detached, full of fun, without the slightest romantic or sexual interest in her. She says that even in her easily deluded state, in which his smallest gesture can seem loaded with imaginary meaning and promise, there was no room for hope. She now realizes it wouldn’t make any difference how extraordinary she became musically, magically, or otherwise—except visually.

Imagining her in that piano room with its undoubtedly merciless fluorescent lighting, and the letdown she must be feeling now, is tough. As she talks, she looks beaten. I wish I could protect her from ever sustaining another blow. I’m afraid that in life, every hit we take chips away at us. How many more hits can she take before she breaks completely?

“I think you should forget him,” I tell her.

“Oh, I’m not giving up quite yet.”

“You’re not?” I ask, with a weird mixture of alarm and relief.

She shakes her head. “No. I’ve thought of another project I’m going to start working on. And if I succeed, there’s a good chance Strad’s feelings for me will turn into love.”

MY MOM CALLS again. She asks if I’ve picked a meeting of fat people to go to yet.

“Yes,” I say.

“Which one?”

“Excess Weight Disorders Support Group.”

“That’s not one of the ones I told you about.”

“This one sounds better for my fat problem. I Googled to find a group whose very name doesn’t make me feel like a fraud.”

“When are you going?”

“Next Friday.”

“Why not today? Today’s a Friday.”

“I can’t. My friends are coming over.”

“Every day, every hour that you wear your disguise is an hour when you could be meeting a nice guy you could love spending the rest of your life with, but he won’t notice you because you’re hidden within that mountain of horror.”

“If he doesn’t notice me, he’s not a nice guy.”

I WASN’T LYING. My friends are in fact coming over for a Night of Creation.

Our Nights of Creation take place in the evenings, not at night, but Georgia’s publicist didn’t care about this inaccuracy when she dubbed them that and each of us a “Knight of Creation.” Her goal is fame for her authors at any cost.

These creative evenings of ours started four years ago when Georgia and I decided to throw a party as a way of meeting each other’s friends. Lily and Gabriel were among the friends I brought. Penelope and Jack were among the friends she brought. Georgia had met them a couple of years earlier when she interviewed them for a magazine article she was writing about Penelope’s kidnapping and her deliverance from the coffin by Jack, who was the cop who had rescued her.

The party Georgia and I threw was successful. People stayed late. But the six of us stayed the latest. We were engrossed in conversation. We talked about our lives and ambitions. We confided in each other. Most of us were in the creative fields and we lamented the loneliness of the artist’s life. Georgia said she found the isolation so unbearable that she often went to coffee shops to write. She liked the noise and bustle. It helped her concentrate. But she said it had gotten more difficult each year as she’d grown to dislike the feeling of anyone looking at her screen or reading over her shoulder. As she was telling us this, she suddenly had an idea: she suggested we try getting together to work on our separate arts in one another’s company.

It probably wouldn’t have worked for most people. For some reason, though, for us it did. Everyone being industrious was inspiring. We felt like family—which for some of us was very appealing, our real families leaving much to be desired. Georgia’s embarrassment over the name made the rest of us even more eager to embrace it facetiously. Over time, of course, it stuck.

Our Nights of Creation take place once or twice a week in my large living/dining room. Lily plays and perfects her compositions at a piano she keeps at my apartment for this purpose. A few feet away, at one end of my dining table, Penelope makes hideous little ceramic sculptures. At the other end of that same table, I design and construct my masks and costumes. Sitting between us, at the long side of the table, Georgia types her novel on her laptop (or at least she did, before she lost it). Gabriel would cook up delectable creations in my kitchen and bring them quietly to each of us while we toiled.