“I make things,” I said. “I make houses during the week. At night and on weekends, I make paintings.”

Eric was standing by the table. “If I remember this right,” he said, “the gentleman had the whole sea bass and the lady had the Duckling Saigon.”

“You nailed it,” I told him. “We’ll have a bottle of wine. The lady will tell you which one.”

Jared was happy we were having wine, and Janet ordered a bottle of Sardinian white with what sounded to me like perfect pronunciation and then, when he was gone and we were eating, she said she would give anything to be a person who made things. “I deal in fluff,” she said. “Image. Spin.” She coughed the wet, two-note cough. “Horseshit.”

“I’m totally fulfilled,” I said. “My life is superb. Which is why, the first time you saw me, I was out at midnight ordering two doughnuts by myself.”

Oscar brought the wine and presented it with a flourish. Janet looked at the label and said it was fine. “Can’t smell anything,” she said, and he said, “Very good,” and opened it like an Olympic champion.

“What hurts in your life?” she asked when we were alone again. I just looked at her. I just wanted Brian to stay away. I wanted the tables at Diem Bo to come with a sign like the ones hotel rooms come with and you can hang on the doorknob. Don’t Make Up The Bed.

“You want a joke?” I said. “Or do you want to go there that quick?”

“Alright. I can go there, but let’s finish the specials and then go there.”

“And in the meantime, what about those Red Sox, huh?”

“No.”

“Alright, how about this? In the meantime, what’s the shadow over you? What’s that pain?”

“A bad day at work.” She coughed and massaged the skin over her breastbone with three fingers, and I could tell she wanted off the subject. “What kind of paintings?” she said. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”

“Paintings where I’m trying to say something about life and death, and then at the last minute I chicken out.”