Page 52

“Have a wonderful time, dear.” She air-kisses the camera. “And don’t be afraid to lead with your bosom!”

As soon as I step into Subject, Rufus spots me through the crowd. He waves me over and gives me a hug. “You just missed Meg’sCoyote Uglymoment.”

“I think I caught the finale through the window.” I squeeze Meg’s shoulders.

“Don’t worry, it was amazing,” she says, sipping the new drink the bartender has placed before her. “You know I took Irish dancing in college. And, well, people wanted to see.”

“People.” Rufus air-quotes.

“I didn’t realize this was a dancing-on-top-of-the-bar kind of place,” I tease Meg, as Rufus shakes his head. “You are aware that your cocktail has an actual shiso leaf in it.”

“I suppose most people stay off the bar until approximately midnight here,” Meg acknowledges, her face falling a little. “But I can’t stay up that late anymore!” Her voice cracks and I give her a hug.

“Well, your eyebrows are one hundred percent,” I say, admiring her threading job.

Rufus plants a martini glass full of something pink and salt-rimmed in my hand.

“And your overalls are straight fire, Ruf,” I say.

“Not as much as yourhint of bosom,” he says, laughing wickedly and clinking his glass to mine.

“Have you been texting with my grandmother?”

“I’ll never tell!”

“All right,” Meg says, drawing the two of us into a corner from which we can see most of the bar. “Let’s get to work.”

I let her scan the room on my behalf. That’s what friends are for, and it gives me time to focus on my cocktail.

Meg lifts her chin in the direction of a guy down the bar. “He’s gorgeous.”

“He looks like Ryan,” Rufus says.

“Pass!” I shout into my drink.

“Okay, what about the brawny blondie coming this way, oooh,” Rufus says, nodding at an approaching man who is trying to get the bartender’s attention.

He is good-looking, the kind of good-looking that never comes without a chin cleft. Meg and Rufus make a choreographed retreat from the bar, leaving an open space for him to sidle up next to me.

He signals the bartender for another beer, then looks at me and smiles.

“Hi!” I shout over the noise of the bar, feeling rusty as fuck at flirting.

“What?” he shouts back, leaning in, hand on the small of my back.

I step away. His eyes are so blue that it sort of hurts to look at him. “I just said... never mind...”

He shouts something I can’t hear, and I realize how pointless this is. I’m not interested in this guy. Even on Shabbat. I start to back away, but he follows, fresh beer in hand.

“It’s quieter away from the bar,” he shouts, nodding toward a window. I glance at Meg whose wide eyes and frantic hand motions let me know that I’m not welcome back in their corner just yet.

And so, a moment later, I find myself pressed against a window, staring deep into this stranger’s chin cleft, and wondering what the hell to say.

“So what do you do?” he asks, after we’ve been through the thrilling topics of our names and whether we’ve been to this bar before.

(His is Phil, and the answer is yes.)

“I’m a book editor,” I shout.