Baby proof

view outside my window let me know that it's chilly and damp, but I still forgo gloves or a scarf or a hat, wearing only a sherpa-lined jean jacket. As the heavy, prewar apartment door swings behind me, I inhale the cold. It hurts and feels good at once. I have no destination in mind so I just wander the virtually empty city streets until I find myself on a bench in Washington Square Park. At a nearby table, two old men play chess. They look like brothers, but perhaps I just think all old men look alike. In any event, they are the mirror image of each other, both with the same thick, mottled hands, drab-brown messenger caps, and black orthopedic shoes pointing out and away from their folding chairs. I know only the basics of chess-how each piece is allowed to move-but I pretend to contemplate their strategy. I frown and nod as if to say, 'Ahh. Nice one. You've got him now!' They ignore their audience of one, which makes me feel as invisible as air and even more desolate. An hour seems to pass before one man finally chalks up a silent victory, not even uttering the word checkmate.

I stand and walk home in the windy dark, and all I can think of is Ben and Tucker, laughing together somewhere warm and bright, basking in their engagement.

That night I pick up the phone to call Ben and cancel our lunch. I have prepared my 'something came up at work' excuse. Maybe I will even use one of Jess's banker expressions: gotta put out a fire. I remember Ben once teasing Jess, saying, 'That's insulting to the good men and women of fire departments everywhere.' And then, 'Don't be dissin' Charlie like that,' referring to my high school boyfriend.

In mid-dial, though, I hang up, deciding to wait until the morning to make my final call. I can't risk that he is with Tucker tonight. The thought of her hovering in the background-sitting close enough to Ben to hear my voice on the line-is just too much to bear. It would add insult to injury-if you can call what I am experiencing a mere injury.

A few aimless hours later, I am in bed, trying to sleep. Just as I am drifting off, I hear Jess and Michael return from their trip, laughing the hearty laugh of new lovers. They are still in the blissful early stage of a relationship when clever, inside jokes abound. I put a pillow over my head and tell myself that Tucker can't possibly be funny on top of everything else. Life's not equitable, but I have found that God does his best to divvy up humor and good hair. This must be my final conscious thought because I wake up remembering a dream about Tucker. In it, I re-Google her and discover that she is doing a Saturday night stand-up gig in the Village. According to the online four-star reviews, her shtick includes uproarious one-liners about motherhood and good-natured barbs directed at her doting husband.

It is still completely dark outside so I expect it to be two or three, but I look at the clock and see that it is five on the nose. If it were four-something, I'd stay in bed, but five is late enough to surrender to the day.

I get up and take a long, hot shower. Then I get dressed as if I weren't going to cancel my lunch with Ben. I liken it to shaving your legs before a first date even though you know that pants removal is not on the agenda. After all, what if I can't reach Ben on the phone? I can't very well stand him up. Or what if the very small part of me that wants to see Ben, no matter what the circumstances, wins out over all reason?

So I put on my nicest suit and highest heels. I give myself an impeccable blowout, and apply my makeup with great care. I put on red lipstick because red lipstick always makes you feel more confident. As a finishing touch, I slide Richard's ring on my left hand. I know I look pretty-which Michael and Jess's expressions confirm when I step out of my room.

'Damn, girl,' Michael says as he glances up from his bowl of Raisin Bran. 'Lookin' good.'

Jess hugs me and says, 'Yeah. At least you're going out strong.' Her comment is not lost on me. Despite her big talk of trying to bust up Ben's engagement, even she seems to be throwing in the towel. I wonder what changed over Thanksgiving. Maybe it was spending that time together with Michael and imagining Ben doing the same thing with Tucker's family. 'Thanks, Jess,' I say.

She gives me a wistful look and says, 'Be strong.' Michael nods and echoes her instruction. They are in accord on every front. I wonder if, over time, they will even start to look alike. It would be quite a feat for a biracial couple, but I'm not putting anything past these two.

I head into work and tell myself that I will call Ben around ten. But as it turns out, my morning is crazy, and I really am putting out fires. So by eleven, I've yet to call him. I recognize that calling to cancel inside an hour is bad form-and that I need to be a big girl and a good sport. I need to show up on time and look him in the eye and congratulate him on his engagement. It is the right thing to do.

So forty-five minutes later, I am cabbing it to Pete's Tavern on Irving and Eighteenth, practicing what I will say: Congratulations on your engagement, Ben. I am happy for you and Tucker and wish you the best. But when I walk in the pub, already decorated for the holidays with white branches, red lights, and Santas galore, I see Ben reading a newspaper, and all of those rehearsed lines fly from my mind.

We are early enough to beat the worst of the lunch crowd, so Ben was able to secure the most famous booth in New York, the one where O. Henry supposedly wrote 'The Gift of the Magi.' As I walk the few steps over to my ex-husband, I am reminded of the line from O. Henry's story about life consisting of 'sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.' He sure was right about that.

Ben looks up from his paper and we make eye contact, both of us nodding politely. He folds his paper and pushes it aside as I take off my jacket and will myself to sit and say hello. My hands are shaky, and my voice does not sound like my own.

'Hello,' Ben says, in a tone I can't pinpoint. He sounds happy and sad at once. He looks changed-yet utterly the same. His hair is a bit longer than I've ever seen it-but purposely longer-not in-need-of-a-haircut longer. I don't want to like his new look, but I do. He is wearing his hunter-green hooded sweatshirt, one that predated even me. I can conjure the feel of the soft-brushed cotton and have the strongest urge to reach out and touch his sleeve. It suddenly occurs to me that he didn't come from work-Ben's wardrobe is casual, but not this casual. He is drinking coffee, and his cup is already half empty. So I say, 'How long have you been here?'

'Awhile,' Ben says.

'We did say noon, right?' I say.

'We did. Yes.'

'Did you come from work?'

'No,' Ben says. 'No work today.'

I start to say that we could have met somewhere else, so that he didn't have to travel all the way from the Upper West Side, but I stop myself when I realize that Tucker might live in this Gramercy neighborhood. Instead I nod and say, 'Just taking the day off?'

'Yeah,' he says as he unzips his sweatshirt a few inches, low enough to reveal an ancient REM concert T- shirt. I know that he bought it the night he almost caught Michael Stipe's harmonica. I also know that there is a hole in the left sleeve, one that I used to poke my finger through.

Our waitress arrives a moment later and asks if we're ready to order. We tell her we are-although I haven't begun to think of food. Ben orders the smoked turkey breast sandwich.

'I'll have the same,' I say because it requires less effort than anything else.

'Something to drink?' she asks.

'A Coke, please,' I say, although the last thing I should have right now is caffeine.

She nods, takes our menus, and briskly walks away as I think, Now what?

Ben fills the silence and says, 'Look. I know why you wanted to see me today, Claudia.'

'You do?' I say, thinking that I'm not even sure why I wanted to see him today. To congratulate him on his engagement? Or to talk him out of his engagement? I look at him expectantly, hoping he'll just say it for me.

'Yeah,' he says, running his hand through his hair as he looks down at the table. 'And I think it's really big of you.'

'You do?' I say, realizing that it's the former. That he thinks I came here today to give him my blessing in person. That he thinks his ex-wife is mature and gracious. I tell myself that I must live up to the billing.

Ben nods. Then he unzips his sweatshirt the whole way and takes it off. My eyes dart to the familiar hole. I manage a small smile and say, 'Well… thanks.'

I know I need to say more-say the actual words he is expecting from me-but I can't get them out. I simply can't make myself give him my blessing and my final good-bye.