“You, too,” Leo says. “Uh, why don’t I walk you to your car?” He darts me a look, which I pretend not to notice.

“Just go to a sperm bank, why don’t you?” Jimmy shouts.

The blonde puts on her raincoat (Burberry, so boring, and does she have to be so damn pretty?). Then she takes Leo’s face in her hands and I stiffen, bracing for their kiss.

They don’t kiss. Leo takes her hands and sort of holds on to them, keeping her from moving in closer. She doesn’t seem put off, just gazes at him. Tears fill her eyes.

“Leo—” she says.

“I know,” he interrupts. “Thank you. Beth, thank you. Really. I’ll walk you out.” He gives me another look and holds the door for her. Who cares? I don’t care.

“Get a turkey baster, bitch!” Jimmy shouts. Several elderly Hungarians have Jimmy by the arms and are slowly dragging him toward the back, where hopefully they’ll beat him with rubber hoses or empty sour cream containers or whatever other weapons they may have at their disposal.

Szabolcs, my old friend, creeps up to the desk. “Dinner on house,” he whispers.

“Okay. Great. Thank you.” So standing in front of the entire restaurant, being shouted at, that was just for fun.

I go outside, where the rain cools my hot face. I take a few deep breaths, then get into my car.

You know what? A turkey baster is looking better and better.

I’ve been on five dates since my divorce. Two guys were very nice, said they’d love to see me again and failed to call. I waited the appropriate amount of time (six days, according to my dating books), then called (but didn’t text) John, and then later, Marcus, and told them (again, according to the dating books) that there was (in John’s case,) an exhibition at the Museum of the City of New York on subway tunnels (male-friendly topic), and (in Marcus’s case), a craft beer-tasting (same), and I was going to go, (demonstration that I had interests outside of work), and would they like to come?

Both times, I got their voice mail. They never called back.

The other three dates consisted of a man who told me, in great detail, about the first time he saw his mother naked and how it made him feel—way, way too good, for the record. Guy #2 was nice enough, but our date took a nosedive when, right as we were finishing dinner, he found a tooth in his fettuccine. A human tooth. That was enough to have me dry heaving, but I had to give him credit. He was very cool about it, and the restaurant comped our meal—not that we were eating anymore—and even gave him a gift certificate for $250 to apologize. When we were about a block from the restaurant, my date started laughing and told me it was his tooth, and he did that all the time. He’d had a molar pulled and kept it for just this purpose. And Guy #3 came in, sat down, took a long hard look at me, then checked his phone and left.

And now we have Jimmy of the Fluids.

I have to wonder sometimes how I ever got Owen.

We met at a party; he was a resident, I’d just gotten hired by Vera Wang and was so buzzed on the fact that Vera Wang hired me, I would’ve hit on Robert Downey Jr. I was feeling so confident and fabulous. There was Owen, handsome and funny and so cute, so normal, so kind! He listened when I talked, laughed at my jokes, called when he said he would, and I had no idea how rare and wonderful such a thing was.

I’m thirty-six years old. I was twenty-eight when I met Owen. Maybe it’s that. My age.

At the moment, I don’t even care.

Except, of course, I do.

Leo’s lights are off when I get home. Fine. Good. Let him go get laid. Looking the way he does, he’s not gonna be celibate. I get that. He’s recreation only. He’s not interested in me. Not like that. He’s gay where I’m concerned.

And you know, that’s great. Look at my sister. Look at me. Look at my mom. No one has a great marriage. No one.

Okay, yes, yes, my aunt Angela does. And so does my best friend from grammar school. And my neighbors in the Village, they were fantastic together.

But still. You know what I mean. No one is happy except those three.

I’ll just adopt. Or, you know what? I’ll go to the sperm bank and take a picture of myself there and send it to Jimmy Grant with a note: Thanks for the great idea!

It may be time to get a dog.

There’s a knock on my door. I can see through the windows alongside the door that it’s Leo. “I’m not home,” I call.

“Oh. Okay.” A second later, the door opens. “I have a key,” he says apologetically. “I’m the super.”

My throat tightens. It’s not fair that he can be this way and not want to sleep with me and marry me and father my babies, and I know this is stupid, but these are the thoughts that run through my head. “Well, you suck as a super.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Take a class, why don’t you? It’s not rocket science.”

“I’m sorry about tonight, I mean.”

Damn. An apology. I’m back to my stupid crush. The juvenile hatred was easier.

Then he comes over to me and takes my hands, and my heart becomes gooey, warm caramel. “Jenny,” he says, “trust me when I say you don’t want to get involved with me. You’re great, but—”

“Oh, shut up,” I say, yanking my hands free. “I’d love to get involved with you. You’re the one who’s chicken.”

He smiles, that sad, beautiful, happy contradiction. “Trust me.”