He never mentioned any special skill in reading minds, but I’m hoping that the force with which I put those thoughts through my head is sufficient to communicate my meaning.

He laughs quietly.

“Got ya,” he says. “No, you didn’t do anything too far off the reservation. Although…”

Oh, just kill me.

“It’s kind of silly,” he says.

“What?” I ask.

We may as well get it over with.

Let the mocking begin.

“You were eating peanut butter out of the jar with your hands,” he laughs.

All right, I guess no one has to kill me. Call off the hit.

“Really?” I ask. I remember the incident, but only vaguely. Pretty much the clearest portion of the evening involved me trying to—oh my god. I dropped my pants and asked him if I have a big butt.

“Yeah,” he says. “I had a hell of a time cleaning it up this morning. Never mind trying to help you clean your hands. You weren’t very cooperative.”

I laugh. Ah, relief, sweet relief.

There’s no doubt he remembers everything, but we’re not talking about it and every synapse in my brain is focused on the concept that that’s good enough.

“Really?” I ask.

I know I’m just repeating myself, but I don’t know what else to say. I don’t know what might make him bring up the impromptu mooning.

“Yeah,” he says. “It was like trying to herd cats into a bathtub.”

“That’s,” I snort. I’m pointing now. Why am I pointing? Crap, I still haven’t finished my sentence. “Hilarious,” I say. “That is hilarious: hearding cats into a bathtub.”

I’m laughing way too loudly and he’s just standing there looking at me. If I close my mouth, I don’t know what’s going to happen, so I just continue to make things awkward on my own terms.

“Yeah,” he says. “Well, I’ve got to go to work.”

“Oh yeah,” I say. “Do you know when your last day is going to be?”

“I thought you didn’t remember anything from last night.”

I should have just kept laughing. “What do you mean?” I ask, dumbly. “You told me they were letting you go a while ago.”

Come on, Dane, don’t let’s make this worse than it already is. Just keep playing along. You know it’s the right thing to do.

“Oh,” he says mercifully, “I guess I forgot that I mentioned it. Actually,” he smiles, “I’ve been really nervous to talk to you about it. I think that’s why I let it slip last night while you were drunk.”

“Yeah,” I tell him, “you already told me. Good memory there, chief.”

Leila, don’t push it.

“Right back at ya,” he says.

The smiles slowly fade off both our faces and it’s a lot longer than it should be before I realize I’m still standing in his doorway, not saying anything.

“So, yeah,” he says. “I should probably get going. Boss doesn’t like it when I’m late.”

“All right,” I say. “Go get ‘em, sport.”

Oh, what the hell are you doing to me?

“Right,” he says.

Now he’s just standing there. I thought he said he was leaving.

“Leila?”

“Yeah?” I ask, popping my lips for some absolutely unknown reason.

“I work outside my room.”

“You’re kind of a weird guy,” I respond.

“Yeah,” he says. “You’re standing in my doorway.”

“Oh,” I say and move with all the grace and majesty of a giraffe on a tilt-a-whirl.

To further embarrass myself, as I seem to be incapable of doing anything else in the world right now, I give him the “You may pass” gesture, or whatever it’s called, and he can’t possibly get out of the room quick enough.

“Yeah, well you have a good night, Leila,” he says. “Maybe dial it back a little on the sauce.”

“You betcha!”

Who am I right now?

He doesn’t say anything else on his way out.

Maybe that should have been my strategy: silence.

The door to the apartment opens and closes, and I’m smacking my forehead with both palms. The action doesn’t last more than a couple of seconds as my hangover rises from its grave to punch me right in the prefrontal cortex. So, now I’ve gone from smacking my forehead to cradling it.

“Are you okay?”

The sound that comes out of me is some kind of mix between a scream, a squeak and a sneeze.

“I thought you were gone,” I say.

Good move. You’re really making it better now.

“I forgot my keys,” he says.

He’d opened the door, remembered to grab his keys and closed it.

Great detective work, Leila. You’re an inspiration.

“Ah,” I say. “I do that all the time.”

“Really?” he asks. “I don’t think I’ve ever known you to forget your keys.”

“Will you just grab your keys and get the hell out of here?” I ask.

Shock adequately describes the look on his face.

“I mean, you’ve got to be running late,” I say.

“Right,” he says.

With that, I just give up and turn toward my own door. I open it and close it with myself on the other side, imagining a utopian scenario when I’d just done that after spending a much more reasonable amount of time in the bathroom, not bothering to say a word or even look at him once.

Ah, the joy of fantasy.

*                    *                    *

Call it masochism, call it stupidity, call it an insatiable craving for confit de canard, but I’ve been at this table in l’Iris for over an hour and I think Mike is starting to tire of just sitting here.

“Okay, what’s going on?”

“What?” I ask.

“You’ve hardly talked to me at all,” Mike says. “You just keep looking around the restaurant. Are we on a stakeout or something?”

His expression turns serious.

“Are you a spy?”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Are you a cop? If you’re a cop, you have to tell me. It’s the law.”

“I’m not a cop and that’s not a law anywhere. Do you have any idea how many morons have walked right into a sting because they thought cops weren’t allowed to lie? How do you think they get confessions?”

“So,” he says, “if cops can lie about being cops, then you’re saying you actually are a cop.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake…”

He smiles.

“Why are we really here?”

“I told you about the confit de canard. It was delicious wasn’t it?”

“Leila, I swear to god, you’ve got to stop calling it that,” he says. “Just call it candied duck. You’re not French.”

“Whatever,” I tell him, dismissively waving my hand.

“See?” he says incredulously.

“What?” I ask, sipping my virgin tequila sunrise. Without the tequila, do I just call it a sunrise?

“Why are we really here? It’s not for the duck.”

“Canard,” I say, not deigning to dignify him any more by actually looking at him while I’m talking.

“Leila.”

“Fine,” I tell him. “I heard Dane on the phone making a date to come to this restaurant.”

“So what?”

“I just want to know if he’s two-timing what’s-her-name.”

“Wrigley,” Mike says. “Why do you care?”

“Mike,” I start.

I don’t know where to go from there.

“Yes?”

“How are things at work?”

“Skillful,” he says. “Things at work are fine. Why are we spying on your roommate?”

“I just want to know,” I tell him. “Isn’t that enough? I’ve lived with the guy for over a month, and I really don’t know anything about him other than the fact that he’s not really a musician.”

“How do you know that?”

“Have you ever met a musician who doesn’t subject you to their dreadful caterwauling on a daily basis?”

“Come to think of it,” he says, smiling, “I don’t think I have.”

“I’ve never heard him play or sing. I want to know what’s going on. He told me last night that he’s losing his job, whatever that actually is—besides, if he was making $120,000 a year as a musician, wouldn’t I have heard of him?”

“I don’t think you’re the musical aesthete you think you are,” Mike says.

“Whatever. Just help me keep an eye out.”

With the wicked smile that climbs up Mike’s face, I know I’ve made a mistake asking the favor.