As usual, Robert was kind enough to let me sleep in on
Saturday morning—by a full 15 minutes past the time my alarm usually goes off—before
whispering into my ear, “I have to pee.” Soon afterward, we were dressed and
headed out for Bagels With Butter, a weeks-old Saturday morning tradition
whereby the men of the house venture to the cafe across the street, break bread, and discuss weekend plans.
When we reached the lobby at around 7:30am, we ran into Allison, the fabulous babe down the hall, coming home from “a great date.” Allison is young and smart and has a smile you can read by, and we’ve been seeing a lot more of her lately since she broke up with her last boyfriend, a sommelier with long sideburns. She was grinning that smitten grin as she wavered there, teetering on her heels, and as she brushed past us into the elevator, she trailed that unique bouquet that says “Yes, I have fabulous taste in perfume” and “Yes, all of those $14 chocolatinis are seeping out of my pores.”
It’s a little alarming to think about how far removed I am from that lifestyle. You want to know just how far removed I am? When I first saw her, in those few seconds before the morning-after booze-waft reached my nostrils, my instinctive thought was, “Wow. She’s up early.”
