Linda's wrapped in a large white fluffy towel, rivulets of water running off her hair and down her shoulders, says something, but I can't compute what she wants. My mind is reeling from Tall's admission. How could he not be walking yet? It's the elemental premise I've explained to him time and time again. He knows how dangerous it is to remain in bed after a hip replacement. What is his doctor thinking? What is Tall thinking? He needed to move when this happened the first time, and it's crucial now that he's ten years older.

"Ben, my toiletries?" Linda's words enter my head.

"Toiletries?"

"Yes, my hair products, makeup, it's probably still in the suitcase. I assumed the maid unpacked them, but they're not here. Can you please check?"

"Yes." I head into the closet and take a moment to dial Angie, but she doesn't pick up.

"Hurry up, or we won't have time to walk over to the restaurant. Are you going to change too?"

I should. "Is there a dress code?"

"It's upscale. Wear something nice, definitely a jacket, slacks or nice dark jeans and maybe dress shoes instead of sneakers?"

My showering and dressing give Linda enough time to convert her straight hair into a cascade of artificial waves. Without Brenda by her side to compare to, Linda is pretty and glossy and attractive in a knee-length tunic that shows off her legs. I've always liked her legs. We traverse the living room, and the peculiar acoustics of the cavernous ceilings magnifies every sound of our steps. We descend the majestic staircase without encountering anyone. Food smells waft into the foyer, but the apartment is quiet, and there's no one to stop us from leaving.

***

Del Mio Senso, the restaurant Linda booked, isn't within a walking distance even by the New York standards. Linda turns the four-mile hour-and-a-half stroll into a sightseeing and photo opportunity starting with the hidden nooks of Central Park. She takes selfies with me by the Carnegie Hall, the Rockefeller Center, the Empire State Building, and vows to return to the Chelsea Market.

She was right to insist that I bring the dress shoes and not rely on my nice sneakers. Even though the blisters on my feet will takes days to heal, buying the black leather loafers was the right choice not only for the wedding but for this establishment. A hostess in a crisp white shirt with a back apron or vest, I don't quite understand, looped around her neck, leads us up my second grand staircase of the day and seats us at a table for two.

"Aren't we cute on this one?" She turns her phone my way and I see her smiling and my not smiling face with something green behind us. "I think this is the one to post. But the one in Madison Square Park is so good too. I'll post both." Linda isn't looking at the menu and is tangled in the webs of her social media accounts.

I scour the menu. I must try the Garganelli al Ragù Bolognese, pasta with pork, veal & tomato—one of the traditional Italian classics featured prominently on Am's grandma's menus.

"Have you decided on what you'd like to order, or can I help you make any choices?" The waiter looks at Linda and me for a reply.

"Let's to the Captain's menu. Can you pick for me?" She continues to stare into her phone as she talks to me, ignoring the waiter.

"Two Captain's menus." I rattle off the dishes I am certain of, and the waiter spends so long reciting the ingredients and answering every question of mine that Linda finishes playing with her phone and picks up her menu.

"And a wine pairing for me, please," she addresses the waiter for the first time.

"For you as well, sir?"

"No, thank you." I touch Linda's hand on the table to bring her attention to me and lower my voice. "You've already had the two glasses today."

"It's been hours. I'm fine. I'm enjoying myself."

She did caution me against this exact scenario. "You said yourself you'll need me to help you stay in control, and alcohol is not the way to do it."

"Let me place your order for the Captain's menus while you decide on your beverages." The waiter disappears.

"Why don't you shout this louder?" The tortured poet Linda is back. "You aren't going to be another person who thinks Brenda is the only one who is allowed to enjoy her life."

"You asked me to do this, and your exact words were 'rule number five: keep me away from the alcohol, two glasses per night tops, it's for my own good.' "

"To hell with the rules. I say we have fun before we have to suffer through the wedding, and a tasteful wine paring isn't going to get me drunk."

"I'm not so sure."

When the waiter comes back, Linda orders the wine. I'm glad I've skipped lunch because eight courses leave me stuffed. The bolognese for the garganelli with the most unadorned odor and taste is also my favorite: the balance of flavors in the sauce is on point, not too sweet or strong but bright and complex.

A smiling clean-faced woman in a white chef's coat accompanies our waiter when he brings us the check.

"I heard we have a true connoisseur of Italian cuisine dining with us today. I'm chef Alissa Himenez, the executive chef here."

"Do you make your own passata for the tomato sauce here?"

"We do."

"Would you give me the recipe?"

The chef laughs. "I'm afraid not. It's one of the unpublished ones. Sorry to disappoint."

"What if I send you some recipes from my friend's grandmother and explanations I came up with on the food science behind them, and get your opinion. I've been working on the many versions of the Bolognese sauce she created over the years, and the tweaks don't make much sense sometimes."

"You're the first person to ever ask me such a thing. And you know what? I'm intrigued. I want to see those. Here's my card. Email me what you have, and let's chat. It was a pleasure meeting you." She shakes my hand, and I put her business and my credit card into the wallet.

"They're catering the rehearsal dinner tomorrow and the reception on Sunday. I can at least look forward to the food as I die inside observing the drudgery." Linda's slurring her words, not much, but enough for me to notice.

Before she gets up, I walk over and help her, gauging her steadiness. She can walk, but she's not sober.

"No, we're not going back home yet. I need a night on the town. Take us to the House of Yes in Brooklyn. You know where t'is?" Linda gives the directions to the taxi driver. She tried to get me to her favorite dance clubs in Chicago before, but I can't even imagine what I'd do at a place like that. Loud music, crowds of people, and dancing are among the top ten things I find most triggering.

"No, I'm not going."

"Why? Loosen up. Dancing is fun." In the back seat of the taxi next to me Linda is dancing, eyes closed, and moving her arms above her head to the beat of the music playing on the built-in screen in front of her.

"It's a firm no, Linda. You can go, but I'm heading back, although I don't think it's a good idea for you either."

"Good ideas, pfft, who cares. I'm a big girl, and I've been going to clubs by myself since I was sixteen. Fake IDs are so easy if you have all the money in the world."

None of this feels safe to me. There were no rules about not letting her go to a club, and she does go to them in Chicago by herself. She's twenty-eight and might not need me to babysit her. But I'm not convinced she's entirely sober.

"Still not sure this is a good idea."

"Don't worry'bout me. I know what I'm doing."

The cab stops in front of a rectangular brick building with a giant 'Yes' in neon lights and an arrow pointing to a door with a line of people in front of it. Linda gets out of the cab, plants a quick kiss on my lips before I have a chance to move away, and slams the taxi's door. She leans into the open front passenger window and gives the driver the address for her parents' apartment.

The drive back takes over half an hour with the Friday night traffic. Whether it's the smell of fake pine car deodorant or the uneasiness about leaving Linda alone in the club, but the food is not sitting well in my stomach.

Me: Text me back every thirty minutes. I want to make sure you're OK.
Linda: I'm in the bathroom, and until I get back to the bathroom, I'm not looking at the phone, so no to your request, stop fretting, I'll see you in a couple of hours, or in the morning. Not like anyone is going to stay up waiting for me.

Me: Do you want me to stay up?
Me: How are you going to get back in in the middle of the night? Do you have the keys?
Me: Please text me when you can.

The same woman in black, who when I ask, introduces herself as Dulcia, with an accent I can't place, lets me in. There are no messages from Am, Mike, or Angie, and it's too late to call to find out how the conversation went. I wash the sweat of the walk, the smells of the food, and the stench of the taxi off and pick my usual right side of the bed.

The delicious food and the enlightening conversation with the chef do not make up for the slimy film the interactions with Linda and her family left on the day. Guilt about leaving Linda alone at the club swirls in my stomach and radiates into my legs, driving me to turn and turn, making any position I end up in uncomfortable and tense—a blister on my foot breaks. I'll have to ask one of the staff for a band-aid tomorrow morning.

***

The room around me is dark. Not my room. Is this a dream? I turn to look over in the direction of who's in bed with me. In the moonlight, all I can see are the straight tendrils of hair on the pillow next to me. Amelie? A hand slides down my stomach.

Dreams about her are frequent, and in them her hair fluctuates between the coils of the old Amelie and the straight strands of the most recent version. In this dream, she grazes my lips with hers. She doesn't taste like the old Amelie, but I'll take her any way she lets me.

It's been almost two months since I last had sex, and my body doesn't take any time to respond to the wet dream. Her hand continues down and dips into the waistband of my pajama pants. A long sigh comes out of my chest, and I'm ready for the pleasure, even if it's nothing more than my imagination. I move to the middle to get better access to her and wince when the side of my foot with the raw skin of the blister rubs against the sheet.

My mind catches up. This is not a dream or Amelie. I slide backward on the bed and squirm to get out from under the tangle of blankets. Why is Linda doing this to me? I told her I'm not interested. This is not funny or pathetic anymore. My flailing hand can't locate the lamp on the unfamiliar bedsite table, and when one hand, then the other pursue me, I fall on the floor with a loud thump.

"I don't bite unless you want me to." Not Linda. Brenda.

"What the fuck are you doing in my bed?" I find the light switch, and my eyes struggle to adjust to the brightness of the single light bulb.

The feline voice matches her eyes, and only the fact that they were not glowing in the dark convinces me that she's not a cat.

"Philip's not back and I heard you came back alone. Did my darling sister not need you anymore?"

"She's at a club. Why does it matter? This is not OK. You need to get out of here. This is assault." I've taught self-defense classes for women for over five years, and awareness about the forms an assault can take is important to me. Women get assaulted a the time but his was not a situation I've imagined I could ever find myself in.

"Come back to bed. I know you want me, and I even had a firm grasp on how much you want me." She chuckles.

What doesn't she understand? My blood is boiling, and I'm loosing control. No longer asleep, I walk around the bed to the side she's on. It's been years since I felt this much aggression towards another human being.

"Get out now or—"

"Or what?" She must think it's a game, a joke. She's wrong.

"Last warning. I'm serious. Get out of this bed and leave this room. Now."

She laughs and stretches on the sheets in a lacy gown that reveals more than it covers. She's about the same height as me, but I've had years of swimming, running, and martial arts.

I scoop her up, and she wraps her arms around my neck her cat-eyes on my mouth, her tongue licking her lower lip. I open the door into the hallway, pull my head back to break the lock of her hands, drop her on the floor, and slam the door shut.

Shit. I punch the door. Fuck. This is not my life. What the fuck did I get myself into?

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