The Barmaid Blog™: Life for a 20-something Manhattan Barmaid

Friday evening, for the first time since January, I see Bonnie. I don't see her at the Bar in her old Coors gear, or run into her on the subway; I see her on the side of a bus stop shelter in midtown. She's gazing at me seductively from a fashion advertisement, and it absolutely stops me in my tracks. I'm grateful that Jenny isn't with me, because although she knows about Bonnie, I don't know if she'd understand my need to stop and stare. Before I can convince my feet to move again, I start to remember what it was like for someone to have that much control over me just by looking at me or saying my name. Obsession isn't love, but being owned so completely can be just as overwhelming.

Eventually I peel myself from my spot on the sidewalk and finish my trip to the Bar, making a mental note to avoid that corner for a while.

As I walk in, I see Tony and Carl sitting at the far end of the bar, and they both get up to give me a hug. I'm running a little late, so I promise them we'll catch up shortly, and I run to the back room to drop off my bag. After I've checked in with Jocelyn and Maya, I check in on the boys with a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon in my hand.

"How's your girlfriend, girlfriend?" Carl grins.

"She's good, thanks. Working hard, as always. And she asked me to move in with her."

"Holy cow," says Tony. "That's huge! Are you gonna do it?"

I smile. "I don't know, to be honest. It's fast, and her asking was sudden. I've got a couple of months to decide before I have to renew my lease with my roommates, so I'm not thinking about it much right now. But it sure would be convenient - I haven't taken the subway this much since I was a grunt at a publishing house."

"You don't move in with someone because it's convenient, Debra," Tony lectures.

Carl snorts at his boyfriend. "Who do you think you're kidding? This is New York, my friend. You moved in with me because I had a balcony and a wide-screen TV!"

"Don't you believe him, Debra," Tony wags his finger, "I moved in with him because he cooked the best risotto I've ever tasted." I laugh, and leave them in order to serve some other customers.

"Where's Mario tonight?" I ask Jocelyn a little while later. He isn't always there when she's working, but it's unusual for him to miss a Friday night.

"Oh, he's away for the weekend with Angelo. They went to Atlantic City, I think."

"You didn't want to go with them?"

"Nah, I'm not much for gambling. Besides, it's good for them to have a boys' weekend every now and then."

"So what are you doing Sunday?"

She shrugs. "I don't know, what am I doing Sunday?"

"Come over to my place, the girls and I are doing our traditional bagel brunch and watching the Yankees-Mariners game, and Jenny will be there. I'd love for you to get to know her."

She bounces a little (which makes her enormous breasts bounce a lot), and says, "Hey, that'd be great!"

At a little after ten o'clock, Susan and Grace, the current Coors promo girls assigned to work the Bar, enter and start making their way through our customers. As far as I know, Grace doesn't know anything about the woman she replaced or why she left; she just happened to be next. Susan on the other hand stops by the bar to say hi, and gives my hand a squeeze.

"Have you seen her ad?" I ask, and she nods. "I don't think I was prepared for it," I add.

Susan shakes her head. "Nobody has ever been prepared for anything about Bonnie," she says, and turns to dive back into the morass. For the first time, I wonder if Bonnie seduced her, too, or if she's talking about something else entirely, and then I decide it doesn't really matter. The very next thought in my head is to try to remember who actually paid for the enormous leather sectional couch in my apartment, and whether my roommates Cassie and Jill will want to keep it when I leave.

When I leave. I've already started to make up my mind, haven't I? I think to myself. And for a moment - just a moment - I bounce a little, too.

(Many thanks to Bridget E. Wilde of Bewildered Art for permission to use her Barmaid Fox drawing as a userpic.)

Jenny's getting out of a taxi in front of my building as I walk up, and she smiles when she sees me. "Hey, baby," she says, "I hope you don't mind, we got done with that EBT earlier than expected." She's carrying her briefcase, her purse, and a bottle of wine. The plan was for me to cook dinner for us both tonight, but I wasn't expecting her for about another hour and a half.

"Of course not!" We give each other a hug before we go in. It occurs to me that I have no idea what an EBT is, but I don't ask.

"Mmmm, you smell like the beach," she says as we break the hug and go inside. "Where were you?"

"Bryant Park, soaking up the sun and the wi-fi. That's just sunscreen you smell."

"I love it."

Howard the doorman hands me the mail, then tells me he has a package for me, so we wait for a moment.

"I was going to take a shower and change before I cooked dinner."

She grabs my ass, and leans into my neck for another whiff. "Don't." I don't have time to respond before Howard returns and hands me a box from Amazon. I thank him, and we head for the elevators.

"What did you order?" Jenny asks.

"Nothing," I reply, and point to the address label where, instead of my full name, it reads Debra the Barmaid. "One of my blog readers must have sent me something from my wish list." I open it up, and sure enough, a reader named Christopher has sent me the DVD box of the "Band of Brothers" miniseries. (Thanks so much!!)

We're halfway into our first glasses of riesling, I've started to get dinner together, and Jenny has told me a couple of funny stories about the confusion over Passover at her law firm, before she comes back to it. "You don't think that's weird, people you don't know sending you gifts?"

I shrug as I chop an onion and pray for my contact lenses to prevent me from tearing up. "I don't know, I guess I think it's really sweet. I was surprised the first couple of times anybody sent me anything at all, but nobody's forcing them. In fact I've never even asked, I just put the link to my wish list on the blog for shits and giggles."

"So why do you think they do it?"

"I don't know, to be nice? In appreciation for the blog, or something. Like I said, I think it's sweet."

"I wonder. You don't think they're trying to get in your pants, or get you to reveal something about yourself? Maybe someone thinks they can find you by tracking a package?" She pours us each some more wine.

"Well, if that's why they're doing it, they're wasting their money. You can't track a package you send to someone else using their wish list, that would totally defeat the purpose of letting you hide your address." And since when are you so cynical and suspicious? I want to ask her but don't.

"And the, uh... pants thing?" She edges closer, puts her wine glass down on the counter, and places a hand on my hip as I sautee.

"Well, you know," I grin at her, "the packing slip does include the address of the sender. So even if he can't find me, I could go find Christopher at his home address," - I walk back into the living room, where the box still sits open on the Comfy Couch - "which is," - and I read the address out loud to her as she watches me with eyebrows raised. "Yeah, so, to thank him for spending a little money on sending me a television show, which I'm pretty sure he sent me in the first place to thank me for writing something I don't get paid for but which he got some enjoyment out of, I could fly to his hometown, show up at his doorstep, and fuck his brains out." I casually stroll back into the kitchen and resume sauteeing.

"Am I being a jealous bitch?" Jenny asks me.

"They just read about me, honey. You get me."

"I know, at least I think I know, but there are thousands of them, and only one of me. And I can only give you so many gifts."

"Do you want me to take the wish list down?"

"No, no, you're right, it's sweet. I would never ask you to turn away a nice gesture from a fan."

"Will you watch 'Band of Brothers' with me?" I add a bunch of shelled shrimp and spices to the sauteed onions, and the sizzling gets louder.

"Of course. Will you come live with me?"

"I - what?"

"Your lease is up for renewal in July, you told me so yourself. Jill and Cassie can find someone else to take your room, can't they? I have so much space, and Puppy loves having you around, and we could be together every single night, no spare shit in a drawer, no cabs or subways home first thing in the morning only to go back to sleep."

"I don't know, Jenny, God, I only met you a few months ago. We've never talked about it, I've never thought about it, I love it here with my friends - I mean I love you, you know that, right?" She nods. "But it's awfully soon!"

"Yeah, I know. I'm such a cliché, right? The lesbian and the moving van..." I laugh. "I just don't want to have to wait until next July."

I take a deep breath. "I didn't know you think about this stuff."

She puts a hand on my cheek. "Every single first thing in the morning."

I take her in my arms and kiss her until the shrimp starts burning.

Sunday late at night I can't sleep, and I can't sit still. I wash pots, clean the bathroom, dust my bookcase, and when that's not enough, I throw on a pair of jeans and take a walk around the neighborhood. It's all bakery deliveries and dog walkers at this hour. It's a little cooler, but still humid, and by the time the sky starts getting lighter about an hour into my walk, my t-shirt is damp - and then the rain starts.

When I finally crawl into bed it's almost six-thirty, and I haven't bothered to dry my stupid blonde hair. My pillowcase quickly sucks up the moisture, and the pillow warms. I stare at Gary's back; his shoulder shifts slowly and almost imperceptibly as he breathes, and sleep doesn't come for me.

Through the wall I hear Jill's clock radio kick on, and then it hits the floor with a crash. Gary stirs, and rolls toward me. "Hey, beautiful," he says. "Still can't sleep?"

"It's been two weeks," I say. "Again."

"Hasn't anything interesting happened at the Bar? You haven't even told me any stories lately."

I hesitate. "No."

"Anybody say anything worth jotting down for an Overheard? And what about your novel? You've been working on that lately, right? You could post another excerpt."

"Yeah... I don't know... maybe I could've done that ten days ago or even a week ago, but after all this time I feel like that would be a cop-out. I need something big, or surprising, or at least interesting, and none of that has happened."

"The Yankees swept the Royals. A-Rod has hit fourteen bazillion home-runs this season."

I smile. "Yeah, but he didn't hit them in the Bar."

"All right, something big and surprising," Gary says. "I love you."

"What?"

"I said I love you, Debra. You're the best thing that's happened to me since I moved to this country."

My eyes heat up, and suddenly I'm very aware of how damp I've made my pillow. My boyfriend reaches for me, and I feel my stomach drop right through the mattress.

It's a few minutes before I'm really sure I'm awake... my senses cross wires for a moment, and I'm sure I feel coffee on my neck. No, I smell nibbling. When I finally open my eyes, I see the top of Gary's head, and I understand that he's nibbling on my neck, and the coffee must be brewing in the kitchen. As marvelous as the nibbling feels, I'm already stifling a yawn. Even a relatively uneventful Saturday night shift at the Bar is an exhausting one, and we didn't get to my place until almost five in the morning. I turn my head just enough to squint at the clock, and as I notice it's not even 10:30 yet, Gary says, "Good morning, beautiful."

I roll over and bury my face in the pillow, groaning. My evil boyfriend lifts up the covers and starts nibbling the small of my back instead. I lift my face. "If I don't sleep past noon every Sunday, then the terrorists have won."

"Yankees and Devil Rays," he replies, and starts moving lower on my body. Nibble. "Third base line." Nibble. "Twenty-seven degrees and sunny." Nibble. "One o'clock." And at the next nibble, I shiver.

I roll onto my back again. "You're killing me, Kiwi. As long as I'm awake, stop teasing and put that mouth where it'll do some good." He grins, and just to aggravate me further, spends a minute nibbling on my inner thighs before he focuses properly.

A good half hour and half a dozen screams later, someone bangs on my door. "Get out of bed, you slut," my roommate Cassie yells, "I'm not missing warmups!"

Gary comes up for air. "C'mon, then, let's get a quick shower."

"What about you?" I point. "You're - I mean, seriously, you're --"

"Yeah," he laughs. "Well, it'll give us something to think about during the game, won't it?"

I nevertheless take him in my mouth just for a few seconds as a show of good faith, then we grab our towels and wrap ourselves in them. "Where the hell did I find you?" I ask. "And why did you make me promise I wouldn't talk about this stuff on my blog?"

He kisses me, and we head for the bathroom. "Y'know what? Give it a shot. Lay it all out there for once, do your worst, and we'll see how I feel about it. You've got my permission for this one time as an experiment, and then we'll talk about our deal later." I make a mental note not to go overboard anyway, to go a little easy on the details, and we get oursevles clean.

At a quarter to one, we exit the 4 train in the Bronx - Gary, Cassie, my other roommate Jill, and me - and head into the stadium. By one o'clock we're already sitting in our loge level seats on the third-base line and eating hot dogs, and thankfully there's nobody sitting nearby this time to comment on our technique. But remembering that incident plants a thought in my head. I reach over casually and place my hand on Gary's jeans exactly where I know I will find more than his leg, and I lean over to whisper in his ear.

"As a thank-you for this morning - and for letting me blog about this morning - when we get home, I'm going to get you off with my mouth once for every run the Yankees score today."

Gary squirms under my hand. "What? Debra, are you sure? Didn't they light these guys up for seventeen runs last night?"

"Yeah, but that's just it. Even against the Devil Rays, they're not going to do that twice in a row. Besides, Shields has a pretty good ERA. I'm not too worried."

"All right, but remember guys aren't like girls - you get off faster each time if you keep going, we get slower. You might be working pretty hard for the last couple if the Yanks score four or five."

"You should be so lucky, Gary," I grin, and I wash down the last of my frank with some beer.

By the bottom of the fourth inning, the Yankees have scored three runs already, and Gary is having a little fun with it. We've told Cassie and Jill about my little plan, and although Jill seems a little embarrassed by the whole thing, Cassie is enjoying the hell out of it. "What about unearned runs?" she asks. "Does he get a handjob for each of those instead of a blowjob?" Jill blushes a little and fills out her scorecard.

Then the gates burst wide open. The Yankees spend a half hour and fourteen batters scoring ten runs in the fourth inning, and suddenly I owe Gary thirteen orgasms. Cassie is beside herself laughing, and Gary just sits there with a smug look on his face, and says with a shrug, "Hey, it wasn't my idea."

After the bottom of the sixth inning, when the Yankees make it eighteen, Cassie has to excuse herself to the ladies room with tears streaming down her face, and Gary even stops gloating. We're on the subway heading home - after the Yankees end up defeating the Devil Rays by the absolutely humiliating score of twenty-one to four - before anybody mentions it again.

"So," Gary starts, "should I, um... call in sick tomorrow?" Cassie snorts, and even Jill laughs a little.

"I think this is going to hurt you more than it hurts me, mister," is all I can manage.

"It's a chance I'm willing to take. All I know is, you've kept your promises to me up until now, and I've no reason to suspect you're about to stop." I rest my head on his shoulder. "And I'll tell you something else, Debra," he says, a little more quietly. "There's no rule that says I can't do anything more for you until you've settled this account."

"I love you," I hear myself say to him for the first time over the roar of the 4 train, and then I realize what I've done. He reaches his arm around me and pulls me closer, and kisses the top of my head.

Thursday evening, Maya and I are on, with Jocelyn expected later. Most eyes are on the television watching the Yankees, but shortly before eight I hear Bill shout, "Vince!" and half a dozen heads sporting curious looks turn just in time to see the barback in question high-five the bouncer who greeted him. Entering behind him are the reasons we're all so curious, his girlfriend/my roommate Jill, and Vince's father.

Vince hasn't talked much about his past, so we have no idea what to expect - only that Vince's father is in town for a few days for a conference, that Vince wanted him to meet Jill, and that he would be coming back to the Bar after they went out to dinner to see what his son does for a living these days. What we aren't expecting, given that Vince is a wiry, hip-looking, tatooed guy who wears nothing but black jeans and t-shirts, is what walks in the door with Jill on his chivalrously extended arm: A middle-aged man sporting a fancy walking cane, and wearing a tweed jacket with suede elbow patches.

"Everybody, this is my father, the Professor," says Vince as he approaches the bar, and his father introduces himself to Maya and me, and then to Mario and a few other regulars who have gotten to know Vince well.

"What can I get for you, Professor?" I ask.

"Debra, my dear, I would be most grateful and, indeed, most impressed if you were to mix me a burnt fuselage." He smiles warmly.

I freeze for a moment, and then I remember something I read a while back, something about Paris during the Great Depression. I nod and smile back at him, then I turn to the back of the bar and mix equal parts Grand Marnier, dry vermouth, and Courvoisier cognac over ice, with a bit of lemon rind. After four years of doing this, every now and then someone still stumps me, but it won't be tonight. I also mix a cosmopolitan for Jill, and then serve the drinks. The Professor takes a sip, then turns to his son, who's now behind the bar starting his shift, and says, "Vincent, your colleague seems quite knowledgeable. So far, I most heartily applaud your choice of workplace." I beam, and Maya chuckles.

"What did you think of his last job, Professor?" she asks.

"I'm not sure what you mean, young lady. Are you referring to one of the musical combos he traveled with?"

Maya laughs. "Yeah, the punk bands - you know, Cheap Sex and 7 Seconds?"

"Well, personally I thought that 7 Seconds were rather derivative of the Dils, but Vincent seemed to learn an awful lot about life in their employ. And quite frankly, how often do you find a punk rock band capable of conveying a positive message?" With her jaw practically bouncing off the bar, Jill offers a toast to the Professor, while Maya skulks off to the other end of the bar to serve some thirsty Yankee fans. Vince just shakes his head, smiling, and goes off to collect some glasses.

"Hey, honey, what's the difference between ale and lager?" He's a big guy, wearing a Dartmouth ballcap, and accompanied by a couple of friends. They've been sitting at the bar for a little while drinking mid-level American beers, and I get the impression they're genuinely shocked at our beer selection - not just that the Bar itself serves so many different ones, but that so many different ones even exist.

"Um, I can never remember which is which," I reply, "but one is top fermenting and one is bottom fermenting."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that in one of them, the yeast forms a foam on top of the liquid while it's creating the alcohol, and in the other it doesn't."

Simone, who's pouring a few glasses of Chivas nearby, adds, "It's ale that's top-fermenting and lager that's bottom. And they call the liquid 'wort.'"

"Hey, she's pretty good," Big Green says.

"We've all got our strengths," Simone smiles, then points at me. "You should hear this one when she gets going on single malt Scotch." She whips her long, blonde hair back around, and heads back down the bar with the (admittedly pretty good) blended Scotch for her customers.

"Yeah, I'm not much on the fancy stuff," he says. "What about stout?"

"That one I know," I bounce a little. "That's when they roast the malt or the barley before making the beer with it."

"And porter?"

"Same as stout."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean stout and porter mean the same thing - beer made with roasted malt or barley."

One of Big Green's friends, a guy who has clearly shaved his head only to beat his hair to the punch, chimes in. "Why don't they just pick one word and call it that? It's not like they're from different languages, like 'Cava' and 'spumante' both mean sparkling wine."

"I swear I haven't the faintest idea," I shrug. Nice to know at least one of them has some answers as well as questions, though.

"Hey, blondie!" calls out Big Green. Sadly, it being the Sunday of Memorial Day weekend, with the Yankees game already over, the crowd is thin enough that she can hear him pretty well, and has time to bother.

"Call me Simone," she says when she returns to our end.

"Simone, why do stout and porter mean the same thing?"

"Linguistic accident," she says. "Stout used to just mean a very strong beer. But the breweries used the word stout to describe porters so much more often than other beers that they just started using it as a shorthand."

"Well, what about chocolate stout? There isn't really any chocolate in it, is there?"

"No, it's just a stout made with chocolate malt, which also has no chocolate in it. They just roast it at higher temperatures, which caramelizes the malt. I think a couple of microbreweries actually add chocolate, but that's a gimmick."

"Damn, where did you learn all this stuff?"

"I kind of grew up in a brewpub."

"Shit, really? A gorgeous blonde who loves beer and knows everything about it?" Big Green swats Intentionally Bald on the shoulder a few times. "I think I've died and gone to heaven."

"Can't stand the stuff, actually," she tilts her head and grins. "I'm a wine girl, through and through." Big Green is starting to ask her about the difference between Beaujolais and Bordeaux when I head down to the other end of the bar to take some orders.

Vince swings by with some empty glasses, then leans over the bar as I'm pulling a pint of Guinness. "I've been thinking about going back to college."

"That was out of nowhere."

"Yeah, I was just trying it out, seeing how it felt to say it out loud. 'I've been thinking about going back to college.' How do you think your roommate will take it?" Vince and Jill have been dating for several months.

"You haven't told her?"

"Not so much. She's got an MBA, and I've got three years left as an undergrad, assuming anybody would even let me in."

"If you're worried about how you measure up to her, I wouldn't. She could be dating another MBA, but she's dating a barback who used to roadie for punk bands. Why would you suddenly be beneath her if you became a college student?"

"That's not it - well, not quite. I'm a little worried about that, but look at what she does for a living. She could get an offer halfway across the world a year from now, and I'd be stuck going into my junior year."

"You're worried about her moving away a year from now? I didn't know you guys were that serious."

He nods slowly for a moment, looking past me. Then he pulls his shirt up. I've seen him in just pajama bottoms or boxers often enough that I can see he has a new tattoo. It's only a few inches tall, and I have to get pretty close in the Bar's limited lighting, but there's no mistaking it - that's a picture of Jill's face over his heart.

Friday I'm on an earlier shift than usual to accomodate some other girls' schedules, and I regret it even before I set foot inside the Bar. It's another beautiful day, the third or fourth in a row, and there's still a few more hours of sunlight left when I arrive for work. I wait outside until the last possible moment, just a few minutes before four o'clock, even though I know Pat, Kira, and Vince are already inside and getting things ready for opening, and I should really be helping them.

After I get inside and my eyes adjust to the dark for a few moments, I see Pat on the phone, and Vince checking the top shelf and the well for bottle levels, but no Kira. Pat hangs up. "No answer on her cell, either. Well, she's not quite late yet, just getting there."

"Maybe she's just on the subway and isn't getting the call," Vince offers.

Pat says, "Yeah, probably. Hey, Debra, thanks again for coming in on first shift." She heads for the back room with some paperwork, and I flip the front door's sign to "Open" before I head behind the bar to sign in on the register.

I smack Vince on the ass as I pass by. "Hey, superhero, you haven't left the toilet seat up in weeks, are you feeling okay?" He's been dating my roommate Jill for several months now, so I see almost as much of him at home as I do at work.

"Yeah, I got so tired of the three of you complaining about it, I just started leaving it down when I pee. Nothing to forget that way. That's okay, right?"

"You're joking. Vince, please tell me you're joking!" He grins, grabs a bar rag, and heads out from behind the bar to wipe down some tables. The first couple of customers wander in, so I get my game face on, and start serving.

It's nearly 4:30 when Kira finally hustles through the door. It hasn't been a problem for me, since the weather is so gorgeous. Even on a Friday, and even on the eve of Cinco de Mayo, people are staying away in droves, so I've barely felt like I'm working, much less extra busy for lack of help. But she feels bad anyway. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Debra, I'll totally make it up to you!"

"Don't sweat it, Kira, it's been pretty slow. Are you okay?"

"What's the story, princess?" asks Pat from behind her.

"I'm really sorry, Pat, I got held up at the doctor's office. I had already waited for a couple of hours, so I didn't want to give up my place in line, and then they made me wait in the exam room forever. I couldn't do anything about it. I ran over here as soon as I was done."

"Okay, just try not to let it happen again, all right? Make sure your hours are right for the week." Pat returns to the back room.

Kira grabs me by the shoulders. "I'm pregnant!"

"What? Kira, that's wonderful, congratulations!"

"Thank you! I'm so excited."

"You and your husband have been trying for a while, right? I'm sorry, I can't remember his name."

"Neil. Yeah, close to a year, now. I mean, I was able to take some night classes last year that I probably wouldn't have if we'd gotten pregnant earlier, but I'm just so excited I can barely stand still! I barely had time to call Neil on my way over here, but he sounded pretty relieved. There'll be a celebration tonight, baby, count on it!" I smile as she twirls around a few times, signs into the register, and pours herself a ginger ale.

The crowd grows pretty quickly after five o'clock, though still nothing like what I'd expect. Bill, our bouncer, settles in at the door at about six, and things continue to pick up. By nine, the place is packed with Mexicans and other Latinos, and it's a full-on party. I get a kick out of a lot of the toasts they make while drinking to the Mexican victory over the French at Pueblo Puebla nearly a hundred-fifty years ago, but my favorite of the night is "¡A los monos de entrega!" which I'm told means "To the surrender monkeys!"

The revelry is in overdrive by the time Jocelyn arrives at ten, and things are even more crazy when Simone relieves me at midnight. I head home with a bulging pocketful of tips, but not without lingering outside some other bars just to get a glimpse and a whiff of the celebrations. It's a gorgeous night, and tomorrow will be just as beautiful - and, I'm sure, just as crazy if not more so. Gary is out of town with friends for the weekend, so when I get home, I just throw on my pajamas, watch a movie, and go to bed.

Wednesday Morning, 3am

It's awfully quiet. I'm honestly not sure if Gary has taken a breath in the last couple of minutes, and for a moment I wonder if he's even still awake. I start tracing circles on his stomach with my finger and wait for him to say something.

"How many people read this thing?"

"Somewhere around three thousand."

"Get off the grass!"

"What?"

"Get off - you mean a few thousand people know you and I are dating?"

"Well, most of them have no idea who you are. In fact most of them have no idea who I am."

"Well, good on ya - I mean, Bria told me you write a blog about tending bar, but I didn't know it was about your love life, too. Won't she and Henry both know when you and I first..."

"First...?"

"Ah, is 'bonk' a bad word over here?"

I snicker quietly. "What are the alternatives?"

"Uh, there's 'root'... 'pomp'... or, ah, maybe 'give the ferret a run'?"

I snort and then giggle, briefly wondering if Jill is in the next room, or if she's over at Vince's place. I settle down, take a deep breath, and get serious for a minute.

"Well, there are two answers to that question. The first is that I don't have to share everything. My readers love to hear details, but if you and I are going to keep dating, I don't want to reveal anything that'll make you uncomfortable. I'm happy to go by your wishes. I can share everything, or I can paint with broad strokes, or I can just withhold completely. It's still my life, not theirs, and they'll have to live with it."

"All right, I think I'm okay with broad strokes. I wouldn't want to piss off your adoring fans too much." He rolls toward me, and we kiss. "What's the other?"

"The other what?"

"You said there are two answers."

"Oh! Right. Well, you said 'when,' not 'if.'"

"What?"

"Wouldn't Bria and Henry know when we first, not if we first, you know... bonk. And I just wondered what made you so sure."

"Oh! I, uh - well, it was rhetorical, I didn't..." I shut him up with a kiss, and then I roll over on top of him. And then we spend the rest of the night painting each other with broad strokes.

I awaken slowly, from half-remembered dreams of performing onstage in a Broadway musical about barmaids in the big city, the last few oddly dissonant notes ringing in my brain. Before it disappears forever, I get the sense that the song was about bad tippers, and I grin. Then I remember what happened last night, and I pull myself out of bed and into my alpaca-lined slippers.

There he still is, sleeping on our giant, L-shaped leather couch, under a spare comforter.

We talked quietly almost until dawn, taking care not to wake my roommates, and then I insisted he crash here instead of dragging himself home to Park Slope at that hour. He was the perfect gentleman. Even when I came back out of my room in my pajamas to say goodnight, he just sort of waved from the couch, and I began to wonder if he had really, literally just wanted to make sure I got home okay. But then he probably wouldn't have stuck around to talk for so long.

I pad my way into the kitchen, pour out the last of the coffee that either Cassie or Jill made for the two of them, and start another pot brewing. I stick my head in the fridge to see if there's anything there I can make for breakfast, but there aren't even any leftover bagels in the freezer from Sunday's brunch. Then I realize I'm presuming he'll stick around for breakfast in the first place, when it's entirely possible he has to get home and get ready for another day at work.

Soon the coffee is done. I grab a couple of mugs, and pour myself one. I'm inhaling the aroma deeply when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn around, and Gary's standing there. "Smells good," he says. I reach the mug out to him, and he takes it, but then sets it right down on the counter, steps forward, and kisses me. It's a sweet little kiss.

"Good morning," I smile.

"Did I mention how great your accent is?"

I laugh. "My accent?"

"Good MORE-ning," he spoofs, drawing out the R that he would never pronounce himself, and I kiss him again.

"Can you stick around for breakfast, or lunch?"

"Wish I could. I've got the rundown on Thursdays, and it wouldn't do for me to be late for my own meeting or show up in the same gear as yesterday."

"No, it wouldn't."

He kisses me, a little longer this time. "Can I make it up to you this weekend, then? Maybe Saturday night?"

"I can't, I'm working at the Bar."

"Right, lunch on Saturday, then?"

"Absolutely."

"I'll pick you up at one." He puts his arms around me, draws me in, and kisses me like he means it.

When he lets go, I say, "Explain to me again why you're leaving?"

"Because I'm a stupid, stupid man."

Nevertheless, a minute later, he's gone, and I sit down with my coffee to catch my breath.

Friday night I'm on with Jocelyn and Maya, with Vince barbacking. When I arrive at eight, Samantha and Will are standing at the bar. Before I get a chance to ask about their travels or offer my condolences to Samantha on Ohio State's loss, or even for that matter get to the back room to drop off my bag, Samantha steps into my path.

"Tell me it's true! You really took a boy home with you Wednesday night?"

I glance at Maya, and wonder whether she waited until today, or called Samantha the minute Gary got into the cab with me two nights ago. "It wasn't like that."

"Which part - a boy, home with you, or Wednesday night?" She's got me, and I grin. "Oh, Maya," she cries, a hand over her heart, "our little girl is growing up!"

I manage to get through the early part of my shift without them pestering me too much for details, but the teasing doesn't stop. I'm beginning to remember some of the pretty good reasons I try not to go too far in responding to guys' advances here at the Bar. First off, there's no privacy - and second, nobody ever lets the truth get in the way of a good story.

"So Debra," Jocelyn says at one point, "when you're with a guy who produces a newscast, is there a little scroll that runs across his chest that says, 'BREAKING NEWS: I'm about to come'?" I smile and keep mixing martinis.

"What I want to know is," Vince joins in, "does a guy from the southern hemisphere go down on you in a counter-clockwise direction?" Not everybody gets it, but I laugh and blush at the image.

I don't even bother protesting that nothing happened, because I know - as much from having been on the other end of the teasing, as anything else - that it won't help a damn bit. "Truth often suffers more by the heat of its defenders than the arguments of its opposers," William Penn said, but I assume he wasn't talking picking up guys at his tavern. As with most other things in my life, I know the truth, and that's all that matters.

Later on, Former B-List Actor comes in with a couple of friends, and they manage to squeeze in at the bar. It's the first time I've seen him in here since Warren and I broke up a few months ago, and I guess I'd started to think he was staying away out of loyalty. After I serve their drinks, he and I make a little small-talk, nothing too serious that would reveal how either of us feels about the break-up. We're still chatting about his kids when Samantha comes over with a fresh Long Island Iced Tea.

"So Debra, how was this guy? Are you gonna do him again? I mean, see him again?" I glare at her, with FBA throwing looks back and forth between her and me. She finally looks at him, and points. "Hey, I recognize you from TV! You're that actor guy. Wait, hold on, didn't Maya say you were friends with --" Her voice and her hand gestures trail off at the same moment, but it's still another good ten seconds before I think she's actually gotten it. She looks back at me, and takes a long sip of her drink. Finally she says, "Wow, that could have been really awkward," turns, and walks to the other end of the bar where Maya is serving.

"I'm sorry," I say to FBA, almost as if he's Warren - who will, undoubtedly, hear about this later.

FBA shrugs. "Life goes on. And it's none of my business."

"You're always welcome here, you know that, right?" He nods. "And so is Warren."

"I'll let him know you said so." I blow him a kiss and move on to serve other customers.

I'm twenty-six.

It's Thursday, March 15, and I'm on my way to meet my friend Dara at her new place so she can take me out to dinner for my birthday at one of my favorite restaurants, Arte Cafe, which is conveniently only a few blocks from her. I'm in a much better mood than I'd thought I was going to be when she first asked me about my plans for tonight. When I arrive at her apartment building on Central Park West, I'm wearing the same simple yet elegant black dress I wore to Warren's for our first date, and I get a couple of flattering sideways glances from men I pass on the street.

I'm expecting to be announced and then wait for Dara in the lobby, but the doorman tells me to go on up, so I do. When the door opens, it's not Dara on the other side - it's Jessica. I stand there dumbstruck for a second, then she says, "Hi, stranger," and we grab each other for a hug. "Happy birthday," she whispers into my ear, and then we go inside.

"How long are you in town?"

"Just a couple of days. My mother has a huge list of wedding-related stuff she wanted me to fly out to take care of, and I was able to work it out so we could do it this week."

"That's so awesome," I smile.

In the living room, I find Dara having a glass of wine with Cassie and Jill, my roommates. "Surprise!" says Dara, handing me a full glass. "It's not much of a surprise party, I know, but I hope you don't mind five for dinner instead of two."

"No, it's perfect," I say, and it's the truth.

After a round of hugs, Dara says, "There's one more surprise - I know you said no gifts, but we all kicked in and got you a single gift, so please don't say no." Cassie pulls a bag out from behind a sofa, and pulls out a wrapped box. When I pull off the wrapping, I recognize the name on the box instantly.

"You did not!" I pull the box open, and there it is, the black and gold dress I've been lusting after. I hold it up in front of me. "Oh my God, I don't know what to say." Giving Dara the first hug, I say, "You bitch, you were planning this all along!" She laughs.

After all the hugs and thank-yous, Jill says, "Try it on!"

"Try and stop me," I grin as I head for Dara's and Dennis's bedroom.

It looks even better than I imagined it would - at least it does while I'm all alone, looking in the mirror. My only regret is that the most wonderful part of the dress is the back, and I can't easily see it. I remind myself to check it out again in the elevator, which has mirrors on every wall.

I return to the living room, and announce, "I'm wearing it to dinner. And then I think I'm going to wear it for my ten-to-close shift afterwards."

I get a lot of oohs and aahs over the dress, and I twirl playfully. Jessica wolf-whistles, and I freeze a little, waiting to see how the others will react. At first they seem unsure what to do, but finally Cassie rolls her eyes and says, "Would you two get a room, please?" We all laugh.

Jill adds, "At least buy her dinner first, this time," and we laugh some more, though I can't help blushing a little. Somehow we manage to get out the door without much more innuendo. After I get a good, long look in the elevator, I'm satisfied. I think I feel more like a woman in this dress than in anything else I've ever worn, and I can't stop smiling.

We're chatting as we leave the elevator for the front door, when the older, distinguished looking but still really, really handsome movie star who lives in the building with his much younger actress wife comes walking in from the street. "Evening, Dara, ladies," he nods, as if he's just the downstairs neighbor, which I suppose he is, though the expression on Jill's face would be pretty funny if it were any other random New Yorker.

"[Movie star], what do you think of Debra's new birthday dress?" She makes me twirl again as he passes, so that he can see the back.

He shakes his head and exhales. "That dress is as sure a sign as I've ever seen that God loves us and wants us to be happy." I melt a little. "Happy birthday, Debra, and have fun, ladies." He steps into the elevator, and I don't want to move from that spot.

But eventually we do, and we head for dinner. "How happily married do you suppose they are?" I ask Jessica along the way, and she laughs. It's a warm March evening, I'm with my girls, I'm ravenous for some Italian food, and I'm wearing my favorite dress for the first time ever. Happy birthday to me!

For a while, it feels like Tuesday is the first day of the rest of my life.

Mid-morning, I sit down with my father in the office of one of his classmates from law school, who's a labor and employment attorney at another firm. We thank her a few times for taking the meeting on such short notice, and then I tell her about what happened ten days ago, my dialogue so far with the Bar's owners, and what happened yesterday. Then I take a deep breath and tell her about the blog - which is the first time Dad has heard of it, and I can tell he's not thrilled.

She asks a lot of questions, takes a lot of notes, and then tells me to sit tight. Threats, she says, would be a bad idea - my ultimatums may already have thrown a wrench into the process and made it harder to get what we're after, which she calls "at the very least, the status quo ante." And as much as I might get some measure of satisfaction from outing the Bar on my blog, it would probably open me up to a lawsuit myself, which I definitely don't want. The bottom line, she says, is that any kind of lawsuit would be an uphill battle, and I should tread carefully and wait for some kind of official word from Lanie and Victor.

"What if that never comes?"

"The more important question, Debra, is what 'never' really means here. I would suggest we wait another week, and if nothing more has happened by then, I'll write them a strongly worded letter basically asking them to shit or get off the pot."

I don't feel much better after hearing her advice. But afterwards, talking to Dad about the blog over lunch in Grand Central Station's food court is a relief in a surreal kind of way. I've never liked keeping secrets from him, and even though I never lied about it, I certainly hid it.

"Dad, you can read the blog if you want, or ignore it completely, but first you should know that I don't hold back much. There's some stuff in there about my life that you might find... shocking. Personal stuff."

"Sex and drugs?" he jokes, awkwardly.

I smile. "And rock and roll."

"You're a grown woman, Debra, and I'm not blind. I know you have sex, and I've known since a couple of months ago that you've done drugs. I can't pretend to understand why you would keep a diary about it that the whole world can read - maybe that's a generational thing. But I doubt reading it would shock me. I grew up in the sixties and went to college in the seventies, remember?"

"Well, sometimes it gets kind of detailed. Um - graphic."

He chews on his pulled pork sandwich for a minute. "Then I hope you'll understand if I don't read it." I nod. "And your new attorney is bound by confidentiality rules not to talk about it, so don't worry about her."

"I figured."

Early in the evening I'm blasting Puccini's opera "Turandot" in the living room while I work on Stop in Nevada, trying not to think about why I have all this free time, and planning to check out Craigslist's job listings as soon as I finish this chapter - which might be tonight, and might not. I don't hear the front door open, but Jill runs into the living room, and stops the CD player.

"Where the hell is your phone?!" she says. "Vince has been trying to reach you for a couple of hours! He called me at work, then I couldn't reach you either, and I couldn't leave until now. I was worried sick!"

A little stunned, I get up and go to the dining table, where I open my phone and see that I have seven new voice mails. "What's going on?"

"Vince found out that Sophie quit on Friday. She got a daytime job somewhere, Vince told me where, but I can't remember. They hired the new girl to replace Sophie, not you!"

My stomach flips a little. "Okay, that still doesn't mean - what the hell does that mean?"

"I don't know," she shrugs. "You still haven't heard from them?"

I stare at the phone again, and then I dial up my voice mail. Vince. Vince. Vince. Jill. Vince. Then:

"Debra, it's Victor. Please give me or Lanie a call when you get this message. Sorry it's taken us a few days to figure out where things stand, but we'd like to have you come in so we can talk about making this right."

I hang up. My heart pounds, my head spins a little, and I feel like there's a brick sitting in my stomach. I sit down at the table and take deep breaths. I tell Jill about the message, and she smiles. "They'll do the right thing, I know it," she says. Then she goes to the sideboard and pours us each a couple of fingers of Laphroaig. I smile. My roommate knows me.

I'm sitting on the Comfy Couch in our living room, at the outside end of the short part of the "L" the couch forms. At the far end of the long part of the "L" sits Jason Giambi, his cap pulled down, his arms crossed, staring at the television. We're watching a movie I've never heard of, with actors I don't know. In between Jason and me, on the coffee table, is a silent telephone.

Every now and then I look over at Jason, but he doesn't meet my gaze. He just looks at the phone, then back at the television. After being ignored for a while, I move from the couch onto the floor, where I crawl past the phone over to Jason, and place my hands on his knees. He studiously keeps his eyes on the movie, so I start moving my hands up his thighs, and in response he crosses his legs. I frown for a second, then try something else - I start unbuttoning my blouse, taking my time. I'm not wearing a bra, and as I remove the blouse, he turns his head to look down at me. After a minute, he looks over at the phone again, then back at me - and raises his hands above his shoulders in a gesture that couldn't be any clearer - "I'm keeping my hands off." As I slump back onto my knees, he stands and walks off to the kitchen.

I can't stand it any longer. I grab the phone from the coffee table, and throw it at the wall, where it shatters. I sit on the couch, starting to cry, and then the phone rings.

My phone's ringing. I glance at the clock, and it says 9:24. My mind is a little foggy when I first wake up, and it's harder to tell when I haven't been working, but I'm pretty sure it's Monday. I grab the phone and open it, hoping it's good news. It's Dara, and I can feel the disappointment. They'd damn well better call soon, it's been four days already.

"Are you bleeding from a massive head wound?"

"Good morning to you, too, Debra."

"Have you been disemboweled? Is there an army of zombies taking over your apartment?"

"No..."

"Then I love you, but it's too early to call me."

"Debra, please come shopping with me today? There's so much stuff we still need for our apartment, and I need your help! I'll even come to your side of town, Bed Bath & Beyond is over there." I lie there and sigh, knowing she's not going to accept no for an answer.

An hour and a half later, we're bundled up and leaving my building, and Dara says, "Where was the shop with that dress you wanted?"

"Not far from BBB, actually." So not much later, we're staring in the window, where the dress still stands, taunting me.

"Why don't you go in and try it on?"

"Dara, if this is supposed to cheer me up, it's very sweet, but I can't afford it."

"You don't even know how much it costs!"

"I know that I can't buy any dresses right now while I'm not working."

"You don't even want to know if they have it in your size?"

"I especially don't want to know if they have it in my size. Can we go now, please?"

As we're wandering around the store picking out bathroom accessories and kitchen appliances, Dara asks, "So what do you want to do for your birthday? It's only ten days away!"

I roll my eyes. "I don't know - lose my job and my apartment, piss off half my friends?"

"Honey, I'm sorry you're having such a shitty time, but you need to stop just sitting around and waiting for something to happen. Have you even thought about looking for another job? Have you talked to your dad about your legal options if you get fired?"

I pretend to be intensely interested in a juicer.

"Debra, will you at least let me take you to dinner on your birthday?"

"Of course I will. Thanks, really. I'm sorry I'm such a downer."

Late in the afternoon, I'm still hanging out with Dara at her new apartment. We've put a bunch more things in their proper places, and only four days after move-in, it's really starting to look like she and Dennis live there. We're sitting on a couch in the living room and drinking a really wonderful Medoc, and just chatting about friends and their sex lives, when my phone rings again. This time it's Vince, the barback at the Bar who's been dating my roommate Jill.

"Vince? What's up?"

"Debra, are you okay?"

"I'm fine. What's going on?"

"They didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what? Vince, just spit it out!"

"Lanie hired a new barmaid. Pat and Jocelyn are training her right now."

"That's it? They didn't say anything about me? Am I fired?"

"Debra, I have no idea. I'm sorry, she just showed up, everybody's acting like nothing happened."

I thank him, then I hang up, lay down with my head on Dara's lap, and start dialing my father.

It's Thursday night, and Sophie and I are working a pretty good crowd. She and I haven't really worked together before; she used to work mostly daytime shifts until Lanie and Victor consolidated the Bar's operating hours. She seems to be a thoroughly competent barmaid, which is a relief - I guess I had always suspected she and Kira were stuck on daytime because they couldn't hack it at night. But among other things, tonight I've learned that Kira was going to school at night - and Sophie just preferred the convenience of a more "normal" schedule.

"So how are you managing now that you're working such different hours?" I ask Sophie when we have a moment to breathe.

"Well, my boyfriend's not thrilled, I'll tell you that much. He's a morning person, and he goes to the gym before work, so the last few weeks I've been getting home only an hour or two before he gets up. It's been a strain."

I tell her a little bit about how Warren and I had similar problems with our schedules during the couple of months we were seeing each other, but I can't offer much in the way of solutions.

"Have you talked to Lanie and Victor about it?"

"I thought about it, but what are they going to do? It's not like they can open up earlier just because I'm having boy trouble. I'm thinking about finally trying to find another job, though."

"Well, I guess they'd understand that. I hope you don't have to leave, though."

"I like this job, Debra, but I'll tell you something - it's not easy to find a good black man in this city with no prison record, no drug problem, and no children floating around somewhere. I think I have to do what it takes to hold onto him." I nod, since there's not much I can say by drawing from my own experience. We get back to serving drinks, and as I'm scanning the crowd, Bonnie catches my eye and smiles.

Bonnie and Susan, the Coors girls, have been circulating among the crowd tonight, encouraging people to put on their headphones and play their music trivia game, and giving out Coors schwag as they go. They're really funny to watch - Bonnie is much taller than Susan, and they have this act where they argue with each other over who's going to be first to steal the guy they're talking to from the girl he's with. They somehow manage to make the guy feel fantastic without ever letting the girl believe they're a serious threat, and it's good for business (theirs and ours). In some ways, it's also like watching Mutt and Jeff with boobs. Either way, we're selling a fair amount of Coors tonight, and that makes everybody happy.

Susan comes up to the bar at one point, sans Bonnie, and waves me over. "Hey, Debra, Bonnie and I are going to see 'The Queen' tomorrow, you want to come along?"

"Thanks, that's really nice, but I'm on tomorrow night."

"Oh, so are we! We're hitting some bars in the Village afterwards. It's an afternoon show, we'll totally have you out in time to get here."

I don't really have anything planned for Friday until work, so I don't have a good reason to say no. I'm not exactly looking for one, I just haven't been very social for the last few weeks since I got back from the hospital. So maybe this is just what I need - these people want to be my friends, and I could stand to watch a good movie on the big screen for a change, when I don't have the luxury of hitting pause and taking a nap. And Helen Mirren, well... she's amazing.

"Okay, you're on!"

She tells me where and when to meet them, and we're all set. A guy who's been trying to flirt with her for an hour comes up to the bar, and as loudly as he can, orders a round of Coors for himself and his friends. Susan gives him a peck on the cheek, and walks off, after which the guy leaves me a $6 tip on $14 worth of beer. When Bonnie comes back from the ladies' room, the two ladies get back to work trying to convince the rest of our customers that Coors is the hippest thing since sliced bread.

Vince wanders over with a tall stack of nested glasses in his hands, then sets them down next to the sink. "How are you feeling, superstar?"

I smile. "Just fine, superhero."

"Jill's been a little worried about you."

"I know. She's sweet. But I'm fine. At least I am now."

He puts a hand on my shoulder. "I know it might be a little weird having a guy you work with dating your roommate. But you can talk to me anytime you want, okay?"

I nod. "She cares about you a lot, Vince, you know that, right?"

Vince smile, and looks down. "I know it." He turns and starts washing glasses, and I leave it at that.

A little while later, Bonnie and Susan are bundling up to head out, and Susan calls over to me, "Debra, see you tomorrow!" Bonnie looks at her shorter colleague, and I can make out her mouth forming the question, "What?" As they leave the Bar, they're arguing. Now what have I gotten myself into, I wonder? Either they're together and I just became a third wheel when Bonnie wanted some couple time, or Bonnie just plain doesn't like me and doesn't want to see me outside of the obligations of her job. And then I realize I don't have any way to get in touch with either of them to cancel.

I've been sleeping an awful lot the last few weeks.

I think I'm entitled. I spent nearly a week in the hospital because I let a bad cold become pneumonia, which led to whiplash and a bloody eye. I never knew lying in bed could be so exhausting - not to mention that lack of sleep probably helped put me there in the first place, so who can blame me for getting as much as I can now? I work hard at my job, and it's been really fucking cold here in New York City lately, and I don't want to get sick again. I don't want to get sick ever again.

There are some days when I don't get out of bed until it's nearly time for me to go to work, and I go to sleep as soon as I get home. On days when I don't have to work, I'm not leaving the house much. I have these wonderful fuzzy slippers lined with alpaca wool that my cousin Rebecca gave me for Hannukah this year, and lately sometimes I'll put those on, wrap my comforter around me, and watch movies on the Comfy Couch in the living room all day, drinking herbal tea and occasionally making myself a sandwich.

My roommate Jill is convinced I'm clinically depressed. She hasn't told me she thinks so, but I've overheard her talking to our roommate Cassie about it a couple of times when they think I'm asleep or they think they're talking quietly enough for me not to hear. It's almost comical, because I think she had trouble passing Psychology 101 in college, but she's ready to diagnose me. "She hasn't had a single alcoholic drink or even a cup of coffee since she's been home," I picked up once during one of those conversations. "I think she's terrified she'll get sick again. And she's sleeping way more than normal." Well, yeah. Is that really so strange?

I gathered that Cassie was dismissive the first time, but I think she's getting a little worried herself. She's been trying to get me interested in going out to dinner, or going over to Scott's place to play poker, or helping her make brownies, stuff like that. Cassie, Miss independent "Sex and the City" herself, who barely knows how to use a can opener, wants me to make brownies with her! It's a little comical, and I almost want to take her up on it just because the whole idea is so... well... pathetic and bathetic, if you know what I mean.

Sunday night, I go to bed shortly after the Superbowl, and I fall asleep pretty quickly, something that hasn't been difficult for me lately. I open my eyes, and I'm on the Comfy Couch. Everybody's in the living room with me, and I'm just trying to watch a movie and stay warm in my comforter, but they keep interrupting. I wish they'd wait for a damn commercial.

"You haven't picked up an extra shift since you've been back at the Bar," Vince says to me.

"I don't need the money," I reply.

"Your tips are down," he adds.

"It's wintertime. People are paying off their Christmas shopping credit card bills."

"You haven't watched or listened to any hockey games," Henry says, skating around the living room.

"I'll get excited about it again when it's playoff time, the Wildcats are doing fine without me."

"They're number one in the country, and you don't care?"

I shrug. "They've been there before."

"Why have you been lying to me?" my father demands.

"Daddy, I haven't! I'm feeling fine!"

I feel a hand on my leg, and it's Warren, sitting next to me. "You haven't thought about sex in weeks."

"There's nobody I'm interested in right now."

A hand on the other leg, and it's Nancy. "Not even yourself?" I look in her eyes, and way in the back there, past the spot of blood on the surface, I can just barely make out an image. It's Jessica. She's walking down the aisle in her wedding dress. I wave, but she doesn't see me.

My phone rings. I pull it out of my pocket and see that it's Dara calling, so I pick up. "Where do I live, Debra?" she asks. "Do you have any idea?"

"I have a bad connection, I'll call you back."

Waiter stands up from his seat across the room. I squint, but I can't make out his face. "I'm busy writing a book, but I still find time to blog. What's your excuse?" There's a knock on the door, and he goes to answer it. When he returns, he's accompanied by... me. I look good. I'm wearing tight jeans, a tight pink cutoff shirt, a ruby bellybutton ring, and my hair in a ponytail. I'm smiling. I look good when I smile, I notice.

The me across the room is holding a box, and soon she opens it and pulls out a stack of paper, close to a ream's worth. "Are you done with me?" the other me asks.

"What?"

The other me sets the stack of paper down on the dining table, keeping a thin sheaf of a few dozen pages in her hands. Looking in my eyes, she slowly tears the sheaf in half. I want to get up and stop her. At least I think I want to - but I don't get up. "Are you done with me?" the other me asks again. One by one, the other people in the room get up from where they're sitting, take some pages from the stack on the table, and tear them in half. Then they leave. It's just me and her.

"Are you done with me?" the other me asks one more time, and as she picks up the remaining sheets, I see that she was never me at all.

"Are you done with me?" my mother asks me, and holds up the last few pages of my book. "Because if you're done with me, I'm done with you." She tears them in half, drops the pieces on the floor, and walks out. The room is quiet, and the muted TV flashes unfamiliar images.

I'm alone.

I stand up from the couch, and unwrap myself from the comforter. The pieces of my book are all over the apartment floor. I inhale deeply, and smell something familiar. In the kitchen, I notice that somebody's brewed a fresh pot of coffee. So I pour myself a mug. I take it into the living room, where I set it down on the dining table and kneel down on the floor. There's an awful lot of pieces of paper, but after a while, I manage to gather them all together in the box she left behind.

I get up off the floor, take the coffee and the box of paper into my room, and sit down at my desk. My computer is there, sleeping, waiting for me to press a key and wake it up. So I do.

I open my eyes. I'm in bed, and the sun streams in through my window. It's freezing, and I can tell it's not going to get much warmer during the day. It's early - early enough that I can hear one of my roommates in the shower, and quite a bit earlier than I'm used to getting up. Much, much earlier than I've been getting up these days.

Under the comforter, I'm warm and safe. But I smell coffee brewing in the kitchen. I throw the comforter off, stick my feet into my slippers, and go pour myself a mug. I come back to my room, and sit down at my desk. My computer is there, sleeping, waiting for me to press a key and wake it up.

So I do.

It's early in the morning on Tuesday, January 2.

I'm at Mario's apartment with Mario, Jocelyn, Amy, Mario's brother Angelo, Vince, Jill, and a few of Mario's friends - and we're still celebrating. Since New Year's Eve is the one night Lanie and Victor don't allow staff at the Bar to drink while on duty, there's traditionally a pretty serious afterparty, and when I say pretty serious, I mean we're still celebrating early in the morning on January 2. Mario offered to host as soon as he found out that Jocelyn intended to partake of this tradition, and nobody put up much of a fight. So we've been here, drinking and partying more or less non-stop, since about five in the morning on New Year's Day. The crowd has gradually thinned to its current state from a couple of dozen at the start.

I've been valiantly fighting a cold since right after Christmas, between the ridiculous changes in the weather and the stress of working the holidays. But I guess somewhere around the fifth or sixth glass of wonderful champagne, I laid down my king and accepted my fate. Now it's early in the morning on January 2, and I'm sick. I consider myself lucky for the moment that I'm not the kind of sick I've gotten in the recent past from drinking too much, but this kind of sick isn't much better. Whatever has been in my nose for the past week or so has now found its way into my lungs, and I can't stop coughing. I can only hope I haven't infected the Bar's entire New Year's Eve clientele; that would be a poor showing of gratitude for the ridiculous sum I walked away with in tips.

My coughing fits have become a source of amusement for the assembled group, all of whom are stumbling drunk or stoned or both. But this one is making my eyes tear and my chest hurt, and I start to head for the bathroom. I never quite make it, though, because as I heave myself one good lungful of air and try to expel whatever gunk is in there, my day suddenly gets much worse. With one wrenching cough, I feel my neck spasm, and I cry out. I lean against the wall and slide down to the floor, holding my neck.

Most of the group laughs, but Vince is there almost immediately, looking me over. He's got some First Aid training, so I let him check me out while I sit there with my eyes closed tightly in pain. "You probably just pulled something, Debra, but you ought to get it checked out."

I squint at him. "Do you think they'll give my lungs a good vacuuming while I'm there?"

He smiles, then just as quickly he stops. "Hey, open your eyes all the way for a sec, okay?" I do. "Okay, I'm taking you to the hospital. Jill," he calls over to his girlfriend, my roommate, "can you get my stuff? I'm taking Debra to the hospital." He's this serious seldom enough that Jill barely hesitates. Both of her. I'm seeing two of her. And of everything.

"Vince, I'm seeing double."

He's already putting on his jacket. "Debra, don't be alarmed - it's probably nothing serious - there's blood in your eye."

"I've been awake for almost two days and I've been drinking and smoking pot all night."

He leans back down. "You're not just bloodshot, there's blood in your eye." And now I'm panicking. Vince tells me to close my eyes and try to relax, and he lifts me up in his arms. All I can do is cry and keep coughing.

A few hours later, my father is standing next to my bed in some hospital's emergency department, holding my hand. They've given me a narcotic - I can't remember which one - that has the marvelous multiple effects of