Why is he still standing there?

Brady.

"Where are you going?" I ask, even though it's none of my business.

"I'm going out with my vet."

"You have a vet?"

"Yes," she says.

"You just got a dog. Like yesterday."

"And I got a vet. Like today."

"Huh."

"Yeah," she says. "I needed to get Strummer checked out, so I took him to a vet."

"And now you're going on a date . . . with your vet?"

"It's not a date," she says as though she believes her own bullshit.

"It is so a date."

"It's a platonic date. He's new in town. Just started his practice. He needs friends."

"Right." You've gotta hand it to the guy. Playing the "new in town" card. I've done it myself, but coupled with the great humanitarian angle of a veterinary career . . . that's a tour de force. "So this is going to be your boyfriend? A vet."

"He's not going to be my boyfriend."

"Well, at least you'll have all your shots," I say, feeling pretty good about the line.

"Cute." See?

"Where are you going?"

"I don't know. We're meeting downstairs."

"This is such a date. I'll bet he's getting groomed right now."

"Funny," she says. "I'll give you a dollar if you stop saying it's a date. It's annoying."

"You can keep your dollar."

"Good, because I'm short on cash."

"That's okay. Vets make good money."

"They do?" she innocently asks.

"Think about how much you paid. Unless he didn't charge you."

"If he doesn't charge every hot girl that walks in there, he's not going to make a very good living."

"I'm glad you realize you're hot."

"Hey-I got charged," she says defensively.

"Now that's funny."

"Can I go now?" she says, making a little fist and digging it into her thigh.

"Who's stopping you?"

"Good night, Brady. Again."

"Good night, Heaven. Again."

Heaven.

I go downstairs and wait for Chris, my vet. I guess Brady was sort of right about it being a date. But I wasn't really looking at it that way. He is kind of cute and I do admire what he does for a living, but I genuinely just want to show him around. It's hard to move to a new city and try to start a life and make friends.

I mean . . . should I consider this a date? The first time I met Chris, the majority of our conversation involved ringworm. We determined Strummer's probable age and his likely place of birth, and we clearly established that he'd never been to Asia and therefore had a zero percent chance of having contracted a Malaysian bird flu. And then he chased me out onto the sidewalk to make sure I'd taken my complimentary pen. And then . . . he asked me if I "know of a good place to eat, in your neighborhood, that you wouldn't mind eating at, possibly with me."

I've never understood why guys have to wait until the elevator doors are almost closed before blurting out some awkwardly phrased solicitation for your company. Go ahead and ask! I'll probably say no . . . but at least we won't have wasted the time. Dating is like pushing your tray along in a cafeteria. Nothing looks good, but you know you have to pick something by the time you reach the cashier.

Chris shows up in khakis and a sweater, and in that instant it becomes no longer a date. I'm sorry. Call it what you will, but I hate khakis. It's the weekend uniform of the uninitiated. I don't like to stereotype people, I really don't. But I'm just not interested in the khaki armada. I don't worship Dave Matthews, and I never play Hacky Sack or Rollerblade. This is not my husband.

I take Chris downtown, and we hit this tiny sushi restaurant that hasn't yet been discovered by the masses. The women that work in this place all wear these geisha getups. They look so uncomfortable that it's almost uncomfortable to watch them. And they have these weird-looking packs strapped to their backs, and I have no idea what they're for. If it's for fashion . . . somebody needs to clue them in.

Chris is sweet and genuine. He tells me about the time when he was eleven and a half years old and his doctor asked him if he was sexually active. He said yes because he wanted to look cool, and then had to sit through an embarrassing forty-five-minute lecture on safe sex and how to properly use condoms.

After dinner we walk around the Lower East Side, and I show him some of the cool places to go and some places he'd be wise to avoid-like the Third Street block governed by the Hells Angels. Then I take him to this cozy little tea shop that I love, and we sit and drink chocolate mint tea.

I begin to wonder if Chris thinks this is a date. The clues: The pointless chair reposition, so now he's a little closer but no longer facing me. The arm touch-I've counted two, and I swear if I say anything else even mildly funny, he'll use the opportunity to make it three. I begin to feel nervous. Not really nervous, but guilty. I hate that awkward thing when one person doesn't feel the same way about the other. I know what I'll do . . . I'll fix him up with Sydney.

And just then, my suspicion is rewarded. He leans in, his face centimeters from mine, and tries to kiss me. I pull back and put my hands up like one of the Supremes. Stop, in the name of . . . whatever this is.

"Whoa."

"Not okay?" he asks, face still directly in my face. It's now not centimeters away, but still inches from mine, and way too close.

"Well . . . I just thought-I don't know. I thought we were going to be friends."

"Friends kiss," he says.

"They do." Like hello and good-bye! "But I really need a good vet." And you're wearing khakis.

"And you've got a good vet."

"But if this doesn't work out, then I'll be out a vet. And a good vet is hard to find. You come highly recommended." And you're wearing khakis.

"I think the phrase is, a good man is hard to find. Probably harder to find than a good vet. And if it'll help, I can get recommendations from some of my exes."

"I'm sure they'd be thrilled to do that."

"I really like you," he says. "I mean, I don't know you. But I thought we clicked today."

"I like you too." God, I hate this.

"Not gonna happen, huh?"

"Sorry . . ." I say.

And now comes the awkward silence. I hate this part, too. And while we're sitting there in awkward silence, I start to think about Brady. God knows why, but I do. I think Brady was jealous about my going out with Chris. At the time I thought he was just being his usual annoying self, but now that I think about it, he was definitely jealous.

When I get home, Brady's Pottery Barn catalog is under my door. The one I generously let him keep in exchange for keeping his Victoria's Secret catalog.

There are a few pages earmarked, and when I turn to those pages there are Post-its with question marks on them. I think he's asking my opinion. Does he have no friends? Are we friends now? And no, he cannot get that stupid fake antique phone. I can't believe he's even thinking about it. I skim through the catalog and look at what else he's picked out. It's not the worst stuff, I guess.

I'm tempted to knock on his door and give him my opinion, but I'll wait until tomorrow. Let him sweat it out, not knowing when I came home from my non-date, which he thinks was a date-and which Chris thought was a date, too. Apparently, I'm the only one who didn't get the memo.

The truth is, Chris is a good-looking guy. He's smart and funny, and a doctor. I'd probably go out with him any day of the week at any other time. But if I'm really going to be honest, I guess I'm still hurt. Not hurt, but a little gun-shy. I haven't had the best luck in love, which we've never gotten into and don't need to. And khakis had nothing to do with it. I think I'm scared. Which is extremely inconvenient because, as I've already told you, I need to be married in . . . well, now in only fourteen months. Ugh.

When I get to work, I'm informed Bruce and Jean Paul want to meet with me. Just the three of us. Which usually means bad news. When I find out they want me to come in early tomorrow for this meeting, I'm sure-it's definitely bad news. Okay, fine. But as angry as they are, I'm pissed now, too. That I have to come in an hour early just to get bad news. Fuck that. It's my spare time. My free time. My time away from this hellhole. And for added enjoyment, I get to dread this meeting for all of tonight.

I see Marco in the kitchen putting the bread baskets together. I walk over to him and make a face.

"What is this face for?" he asks.

"I think I'm getting fired," I say.

"I think perhaps, too."

"Really?" I say, now completely freaking out. I thought maybe they'd at least give me a warning first.

"Why do you think you are getting fired?"

"Because Jean Paul and Bruce want to meet with me. In the morning. Why? What did you hear?"

"They don't tell me anything," he says. And he squeezes the bread to check it for freshness.

"You must know something. You agreed with me when I said I thought I was getting fired!"

"I know that Bruce has spoken of your many conflicts with the customers. It seems you have had several conflicts, yes? Many scandals?" I guess by conflicts, he means problems. Which is close, I guess. Maybe that's even a better way of describing it. I'd just say my customers are assholes who want to feel superior, so they treat me like crap, but yes, I guess I have "conflicts" with them.

"Yeah, I have had a few," I say and sort of laugh. Then that seems stupid, so I stop.

"Don't let the customers make you nervous and collapsed," he says. Marco says "collapsed" instead of "upset." I've tried to teach him, but he hasn't gotten it yet.

"Upset . . . angry," I say. "Not collapsed and nervous."

"Yes. Angry. Mad. Don't let these customers get you mad."

"I try." Then I sigh. "I'm not a waitress, Marco," I say. It's the first time I've said this out loud. It freaks me out because, yes, I'm not a waitress-so maybe that makes my behavior okay . . . sort of. But really because . . . I am a waitress. This is what I do. For now I am a fucking waitress. It's the only thing that's paying my bills. Without this, my nest egg would be scrambled in no time. And as much as I don't want to admit it . . . it's the cold, hard truth. Maybe I need to shape up and try harder not to fuck up. It's not a question of skill, really. It's basically an attitude adjustment. Or maybe it's time to quit procrastinating on what I've wanted to do since the moment S&M PR showed me how not to run a PR agency-start and run one of my own. That's the one good thing that came out of that job, I guess. They taught me that I don't want to work for corporate America anymore. And I sure as hell don't want this either.

"I know you are not a waitress," Marco says. "This is why I like you. I don't like a woman who can carry more plates than me."

I smile. "It's not just how many plates I can carry. It's a mentality thing," I say, not sure if I'm talking above his level of understanding.

"I know this, too. I understand you, Heaven. Better than you think," he says. I adore him. Not in a want-to-throw-him-up-against-the-refrigerator-and-have-crazy-sex-with-him way . . . but in a sweet way. He's one of the good ones. I know he can tell what I'm thinking because he says, "Who is your favorite Albanian?"

"You are," I say, and I give him a squeeze.

"Yes," he says. "But unfortunately I don't have any competition."

"Marco, if everyone who worked in this place was Albanian, I promise you-you'd still be my favorite." He smiles, which shows off his missing tooth. It's not right in the front, but on the side. He's quite a vision with the eye patch and the missing tooth, but it just makes him that much more lovable.

"Albania . . . it sucks. We have nothing," he says. "Even Bulgaria won an Olympic medal, but it was stupid."

"Why was it stupid?"

"Because it was for weight lifting. And then they got kicked out for drugs. I don't understand this weight lifting. It is stupid sport. Why do people watch this? To see one man pick up a piece of metal? This is not very interesting to me."

"You have a point there, Marco." I laugh.

There's an older man sitting by himself, eating Canh Chua soup, and he clears his throat. He does it again. And then once again, with more effort.

The next thing I know, Marco lifts the man out of his seat and starts to shake him. He gets behind him and starts to do the Heimlich maneuver. I'm stunned, as is everyone else. No one is as stunned as the poor man, though.

Marco's now standing behind him, his hands together in a fist, which he is hurling into the man's stomach. He's literally lifting him off the ground with each hurl. Tossing the man around like a rag doll. The man is actually trying to speak, in between each punch to his gut.

"What . . . [punch] are . . . [punch] you . . . [punch] doing? [punch]"

"I am saving your life," Marco says. "I have had extensive training in Albania for just this thing!" he announces, heaving his doubled fist once again into the man.