Namita said, adjusting herself on her bar stool and smoothing her tight wool pants. A guy at the pool table gave her an appreciative grin. Namita nodded back coolly, then returned her attention to Jess. “But it is. Seriously, it’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”“I’m not sure I’m going to actually sell it,” Jess shouted, in the vain hope of being heard over the thundering din of the jukebox and the chatter of the hundred or so people crowded around the bar. Every woman she saw appeared to be six feet tall and blond, which normally would have made Jess—at five-foot-two with brown curls—feel even shorter and mousier than usual, but that night she felt as giddy as if she’d drunk champagne, as if her heart was full of helium, as if she could float. “Probably I won’t.” She took a gulp of the Pabst Blue Ribbon Namita had ordered. “Ugh. This is warm.”“Sadly, refrigeration doesn’t improve it much. And don’t change the subject! You,” she shouted, pointing an accusatory finger at Jess, “have the best apartment in the entire world.”“I know.”“Hardwood floors, views of the park, two full bathrooms .
