State cops help us out on that.”
“And you don’t like it when that
happens.”
“I like to run my own show,” Jesse said.
“When I
can.”
The Indigo Apple had a lot of etched glass and blue curtains.
For breakfast it specialized in omelets with regional names.
Italian omelets with tomato sauce, Mexican omelets with cheese and peppers, Swedish omelets with sour cream and mushrooms. Jesse chose a Mexican omelet. Marcy ordered wheat toast.
“Speaking of which, how is the drinking?”
“Good,” Jesse said.
He didn’t like to talk about his drinking, even to Marcy.
“And the love life?” Marcy said.
“Besides you?”
“Besides me.”
“Various,” Jesse said.
“Well, doesn’t that make me feel
special,” Marcy
said.
“Oh God, don’t you get the vapors on me,” Jesse
said.
“No.” Marcy smiled. “I
won’t. We’re not lovers. We’re pals who fuck.”
“What are pals for,” Jesse said.
“It’s why we get along.”
“Because we don’t love each
other?”
“It helps,” Marcy said.
“How’s the ex-wife?”
“Jenn,” Jesse said.
“Jenn.”
Jesse leaned back a little and looked past Marcy through the etched glass front window of the cafe at people going by on the street, starting the day.
“Jenn,” he said again. “Well
… she doesn’t seem to be in
love with that anchorman anymore.”
“Was she ever?”
“Probably not.”
Marcy ate some toast and drank some coffee.
“She’s going out with some guy from
Harvard,” Jesse
said.
“A professor?”
The waitress stopped by the table and refilled their coffee cups.
“No, some sort of dean, I think.”
“Climbing the intellectual ladder,” Marcy said.
Jesse shrugged.
“You’ve been divorced like five
years,” Marcy
said.
“Four years and eleven days.”
