"Good," I say, and I leave without looking back.

Brady.

I met a cute girl today. Or at least she started out cute. Then she opened her mouth and her head all but spun around. Had the nerve to tell me I stole her wish, whatever the hell that was about. Talk about high maintenance. And psycho. She had like seventeen doughnuts in her hands. Nice ass, too. It's probably expanding right this second.

I sit on my couch in my otherwise empty apartment and take out my egg-salad sandwich. Just as I'm about to take my first bite, there's a knock at my door.

I open it. To my surprise-and horror-it's her. The crazy doughnut-eating, eyelash-wishing girl from the deli downstairs.

"Hi, I'm your neighbor, and I have some of your mail," she says. Then she realizes it's me. "You? You live here?"

"Yes, I live here."

"You're the retard?"

"The what?"

"Nothing."

"So, we're neighbors?" I ask in a please-don't-let-this-be-true kind of way.

"Yeah. So . . . yeah. Here's your mail," she says. "You should pay more attention to your poor grandmother. And if I were you I wouldn't use that toothbrush."

She opened my mail?

"You opened my mail?"

"Kind of."

"Yeah, looks that way." She didn't just open my mail. She tore it open. Wasn't even careful about it. It looks like a dog went at it in search of a Milk-Bone. "That's a federal offense, you know."

"Oh, and I borrowed a tenner," she adds casually.

"What?"

"Your grandmother sent you ten dollars. And I borrowed it because I was famished. But I'll pay you back. Promise."

"I'm sorry, I'm just a little shocked. You opened my mail and stole money from it?"

"I didn't steal it, I borrowed it. I said I'd give it back, didn't I?" She's got this entitled air, like it's my fault for exposing her to the temptation of the tenner.

I look over her shoulder, as if some explanation might be trailing just slightly behind her. "That's just so odd," I say.

"Not really. It's not that odd. If I took it out and peed on it and then gave it back to you, that would be odd. I simply borrowed it and will give it back. I can go to the ATM right now if you want."

"It's okay."

"I even have a doughnut left. I'll give you your ten bucks back and a doughnut's worth of interest."

"You can keep your doughnut."

"Fine," she says.

"Fine," I say back.

"And you're welcome for your mail."

And she storms back into her apartment, which happens to be right next door to mine. What a freak!

Heaven.

What a creep! They say no good deed goes unpunished, and it's true. That's what I get for doing him the favor of delivering his mail. A bunch of attitude. Attitude from the jerk that stole my wish, I might add. The wish that very well could have been the most important wish of my life. I could have wished on that lash for the man I'm going to marry, and maybe that was the lash that would have brought him. Now I'll never know. Because of him. Or I could have wished for a root beer fountain in my apartment that would never run dry. He has some nerve getting mad at me.

I notice my petri dish sitting on the table. It's time to close it and hide it under the bed. The directions said to put it in a suitcase under my bed but I'm sure a shoe box will suffice. I'm reminded of "The Princess and the Pea" and get to thinking . . . What kind of a girl is going to feel a pea under her mattress? And furthermore, what kind of a man is going to find a girl who is so distressed by a measly little pea and think, "Now that is the woman for me." I think if a man found himself a woman that tossed and turned all night because she had a pea under her mattress, he'd run for the hills. That is some high-maintenance woman right there. I myself can sleep with all kinds of things under me, or around me. Like a remote . . . or a book . . . or some recent magazines. Sometimes it's easier to just leave things rather than move them. I remember one time I had so many things piled up all over my bed there was barely enough room for me to sleep in it. But I did it. Uncomfortably, sure. But I slept. And would have done it again the next night had Sydney not physically removed said items when she came over the next morning to drag me out of bed for coffee. She was mortified by my very few inches of sleeping room. The point is: I am not high maintenance. At least not in the pea sense. In fact, not in most senses. Sure, I like my share of attention, but I'm pretty easygoing. For the most part.

Sydney and I go to Starbucks for our daily morning coffee get-together, and she is wearing a beret. This is Sydney's newest attempt to deflect attention from what she perceives as a flat chest-some people have crosses to bear, this is Sydney's.

"What is on your head?" I ask.

"Hair?" she quips.

"Okay, Monica."

"Don't give me that. I think it's cute."

"It's not. Berets don't look good on anyone. They're stupid."

"They are not," she says, indignant. "I'm not letting Monica Lewinsky spoil it for me. Plus, you said you liked her. Didn't you wait on her once?"

"She didn't spoil anything. There was never anything remotely okay about wearing one. They're awful. And yes, I liked her a lot. Very nice girl. And were she my friend back in the day, I wouldn't have let her wear one either."

She slurps her coffee, then stops mid-slurp. "What about Prince?"

"What about him?"

"'Raspberry Beret'? You may recall a certain mega-hit about a certain fruit-colored chapeau?"

"You may recall the lyric? 'A raspberry beret? The kind you find in a secondhand store'? That's because they've been out of style so long that you can't find them in a normal store. And because they are hideous."

"So I'm supposed to believe that the entire country of France is wrong?" she says.

"Oh, don't get me started on the French."

"You're just jealous I can pull it off," she says, turning her face away.

"Sweetie, if anyone could pull it off, I promise it's you. But a beret is not okay. And that even rhymes so you can remember it easier."

"I like it, and I'm wearing it."

"Okay then. All you," I say. She pouts for a minute and then takes the stupid thing off.

"Thank you."

"You're not welcome."

"It's only because I love you. I wouldn't let you walk around with poppy seeds in your teeth. I wouldn't let you walk around in jeans that made you look fat. And I will not let you walk around in a beret. That is my credo. And so it is written."

"And so it shall be done. And so you shall be buying our second round this morning due to all this unnecessary stress I've suffered."

"Fine," I say and go to the counter to order.

When I sit back down with our coffees, Sweet'n Low, and stirrers, I start in on my jerk neighbor and tell her what happened. What the hell kind of name is Brady, anyway? Sydney, of course, asks if he's hot. And no, he is not hot. She asks if he's passable. Again I tell her no. She's asking because if he is, then one of us needs to date him. Even if he was, it certainly wouldn't be me, and I wouldn't let him have her either. We deserve perfect princes. And him? The wish-wrecking neighbor from hell? He should end up with a troll.

"Oh! I didn't tell you the latest," she says. "I got set up on a blind date with this guy named Ed, and he kept making this face on our whole first date."

"What kind of face?"

"He kept doing this," she says, making this fish face. She's sticking her lips out like she's either puckering up or making fish lips. "After the first date I thought no way, but then I decided not to be shallow and that I'd give him another chance."

"And?"

"So I did. We went on three dates, and he was a perfect gentleman. He even picked me up at my apartment before our date!"

"Syd?" I say. "That's what guys are supposed to do."

"Well, they never do it for me. And he didn't even try to kiss me on the first date. And then he was also a perfect gentleman on our second date. He wouldn't come upstairs. And I offered."

"I have no doubt."

"So on our third date-" she begins.

"Wait-was he still making the fish face all the time?"

"Yes! And it got worse," she says. "He'd be telling me a story and then make these dramatic pauses, and the face would hold for the entire pause. It was awful! But I looked past it, and on our third date we finally had sex. Three times."

"To make up for the first two dates."

"Something like that," she says. "But get this . . . here I am, sucking it up, not being shallow . . . giving old fish-face a chance-and he blew me off! Never called me again! What's up with that?"

"That's weird," I say.

"I know! And you wanna know what's really weird? I don't think he came when we had sex. All three times."

"Well . . . usually you know. I mean, you know."

"I'm telling you!" she practically shouts. "He acted like he came. Full on! But after . . . when I went to throw something away, I looked at the condoms in my trash can . . . and there was nothing in them."

"Okay-why are you digging condoms up out of your trash?"

"I wasn't," she says defensively. "They were just there, and I noticed they looked empty."

"That's weird."

"He pretended like he came. All three times. Why would a guy pretend to come? Do guys fake orgasms, too? Can you imagine if we were both faking?"

"Were you?" I ask.

"No, I came. But the real point here is that he never called me again! I threw him a bone and he blew me off. Maybe he was gay," she says, sipping her coffee.

Brady.

I have two main friends I've had for as long as I can remember. One is Phil, with whom I share an office, a company, and far too many hours. The other is Zach, whom I spend considerably less time with but have many more quality conversations with. However, this is not necessarily one of those times. Zach is a substitute teacher/karaoke host. Put the man in front of a mic and he'll bring a smile to your face, a tap to your foot, and your girlfriend to his bedroom.

Zach is too smart for his own-or anyone else's-good. Then again, Zach thinks I'm too smart for my own-or anyone else's-good. Like me, he puts himself into every movie character he likes. Except, where I'd be the flawed but lovable fuck-up who triumphs, though barely, at the last hour-the Hugh Grants and John Cusacks of the world-Zach would be the good-looking hipster loose-cannon type. The Jack Nicholsons and Rock Hudsons. Well, the young Jacks. And the straight Rocks.

Zach spends most of his free time trying to plan the perfect crime, which he has every intention of pulling off one day.

I'm sitting with him at this Mexican restaurant called Lucy's. It's equidistant from our offices, and we meet here for lunch at least once a week. It's murder on my digestive system but better than fighting over who traveled farther last time. Zach's drinking a Mojito and keeps referring to it with a bad thick Spanish accent, making it sound an awful lot like Cornholio.

"What's not to love? Sugar, mint, lime juice, rum, ice, soda . . . it's like a glass of happiness," he says, adding "Mojito" once again in the Spanish tongue.

"Can you not turn into Phil, please? This is my lunch break. My reprieve."

"Sorry."

"I'm going for the patent."

"Cinnamilk, or the Catch-It Cone?" he asks.

"Cinnamilk," I say. The Catch-It Cone is another of my little brilliances, but I can tackle only one invention at a time. More on the Catch-It Cone later.