Baby proof

He peers down at the ball and says, 'Damn. My dry cleaner isn't going to get that stain off my suede jacket.'

I laugh. 'Why are your questions posed to the Eight Ball always so inane?'

'Because my life is inane. You know that,' he says, running his hand over his clean-shaven head. Michael has the smoothest brown skin I've ever seen. He almost looks airbrushed. Ben has always said that Michael looks like Charles Barkley-and I guess I can see the resemblance around the eyes and eyebrows-but Michael isn't nearly as bulky as Barkley, and his features are sharper.

'Right,' I say sarcastically. Michael's life is anything but inane. Just last week, he accidentally sent an e-mail to the entire company about his assistant being incompetent.

'So anyway. Where are you with Amy Dickerson's novel? Is Time going to review it or what?' I ask.

'I'm getting there,' he says, yawning. Michael is a total procrastinator, but can usually charm his way into getting any review for me. Everybody in the business loves him, and I'm always thrilled when he's covering one of my books. 'No worries.' He points to my Zagat. 'What? Do you have a hot date already?'

'No,' I say. 'I'm trying to pick a place to meet Ben tonight.'

'To discuss reconciliation?'

'No. To discuss the division of our assets.'

'Hmm,' he says. 'How about Kittichai? I have a reservation I'd rather not use.'

I raise my eyebrows. Long story.

'I have time.'

'She's too needy.'

'Ahh,' I say, flipping to the Ks. 'So, Kittichai. That's in the Thompson Hotel, right?'

'Yeah,' he says. 'I have a table for two at eight. It's yours if you want it.'

'I've actually never been,' I say. 'And I don't think this is the night to be trying something new.'

'So go to an old standby… Gramercy Tavern? Aquavit? Balthazar?'

I shake my head. 'Can't do those, either. Old standbys are imbued with too many memories. Good memories. Celebrations. It would be… conflicting,' I say. 'I can't very well be sitting there telling Ben that I want our Calphalon pots, all the while thinking about our first anniversary or the night we got a little crazy in the back of a cab…'

'You don't even cook. You really want the pots?' he asks.

'No. I don't really want anything.'

Michael nods and then squints up at the ceiling as if he has something in his contacts. 'Just curious on that back-of-a-cab thing-I'm testing a theory-did that happen before or after you guys got hitched?'

'Before,' I say, pushing away the memory as I continue. 'I think I have to aim for something in between trendy, new hotspot, and tried-and-true favorite. A place we've both been before, but a place with no particular connotation. A place with a decent vibe, but not too much gaiety,' I say. 'And I'm thinking low marks in service. I don't want a lot of interruptions or too much food and wine description.'

Michael laughs.

I shoot him a look. 'This isn't funny.'

His smile fades and he says, 'My bad. You're right, this isn't funny.'

'Okay. It's a little bit funny,' I say, thinking that maybe those people who crack jokes in the face of hardship are on to something.

He shakes the 8 Ball again and says, 'Uh-oh.'

'What?' I say.

'Never mind,' he says. 'I don't believe in this thing anyway.'

The night of our final 'date,' I arrive at a random bistro in Hell's Kitchen (a neighborhood with which Ben and I have the fewest ties) ten minutes late but still before Ben. This annoys me because I have to have a drink at the bar, which makes the evening feel too much like a date, rather than the business transaction it is. I wonder if perhaps we should have met for lunch instead.

Ben saunters in after I've ordered my wine and taken my first few sips. He is wearing loose-fitting jeans and a new white shirt that makes his chest and arms look especially cut. Ben has one of those not-too-big, not-too- small, hard bodies that always looks perfect in clothes. And unfortunately for me now, even better without.

'Nice shirt,' I say with a trace of sarcasm. I want him to know that I know that he's been shopping during our turmoil.

He gives me a defensive look and then mumbles something about picking a few things up at the Gap. Picturing Ben trying on casual clothes that he will surely be wearing on dates with blushing, fertile girls in their early twenties makes me almost hate him. This is actually a good, healthy thing, though, because hating him takes the sad edge off the night. I settle up at the bar, and we walk over to the maitre d's podium.

'He's here,' I say, pointing at Ben.

She smiles and leads us to a small table in the very center of the dining area. I immediately target the table as the worst one in the restaurant. We will be surrounded on all sides. I don't anticipate a scene. Nor do I expect tears. Ben and I are very controlled and feel the same way about drawing attention to ourselves. But still. A corner table would work so much better for our purposes. I glance at Ben, hoping he'll ask to switch. He almost always does. Even when we were at McDonald's and I'd pick our table, he'd ask if I wouldn't mind moving. It became almost a game. I'd anticipate where he wanted to sit, and he'd find something problematic with it. A draft from air-conditioning, sunlight too direct in his eyes, a nasty spot of ketchup on his chair. Of course, Ben picks this night to debut his new shirt and become complacent with our seating.

'So. How is everything?' Ben asks me after the waitress hands us our menus and a wine list.

'Fine,' I say.

'How's work?'

I tell him work is great and then, at his prodding, give him a few-sentence update on recent books I've been working on and some I'm trying to acquire. I know Ben is proud of all that I've accomplished at work, and I can't help sharing a few details with him. I wonder how long it will take to lose the urge to share my stories with him. 'How's work going for you?' I say.

'It's okay,' he says. 'Same old.'

'Your family?' I ask.

'They're fine. Good.'

'Did you tell them yet?' I ask.

'Tell them what?'

'Gee, Ben, I don't know. Tell them about your new shirt.'

'I didn't know which specific part of this you were referring to,' he says.

'The whole thing? The general breaking up that's happening here?' I say, pointing back and forth in the space between us.

'I told them we were having problems,' he says.

'Did you tell them the nature of our problems?' I ask.

He nods.

'So now they all think I'm a cold bitch?' I ask.

'Nobody thinks anything bad about you, Claudia.'

I look down at my menu, raise my eyebrows, and mutter that I doubt this very much.

He ignores my comment and says, 'Did you tell your folks?'

'No,' I say. 'Not yet.'

He doesn't look surprised. He knows I avoid my mother and that I don't want to upset my father. 'What about your sisters?'

'Not yet. Just Jess,' I say. 'And Michael.'

'Annie?' he asks.