I gesture along in conference rooms, getting more and more consumed in my speculations about what exactly he could want out of this: friendship—my ultimate fear? Sex? And what do I want? Explanations? Respect? Justice? My mind turns into a labyrinth of convoluted paths, an endlessly expanding Excel model ready either to crash or to yield “spectacular shareholder value,” as Andrea says from across the table. And I nod like I am following her, but I’ve no clue what she’s talking about. Finally I go for a run by the Hudson River that morning, Saturday. I cross the West Side Highway and hit dog joggers, baby strollers, runners in bank-sponsored marathon gear holding Starbucks cups. I zigzag between them till I’m in the clear. I gain speed, and the wind off the river hits my face. The more I run, the more confident I get. I can do this, no matter where Erik stands on the bourgeois-bohemian scale. I start rehearsing jokes I’ll tell over the empty plates and glasses of tap water—Cheney and Rufus Wainwright are on a plane to Dubai . . .
