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She taps her fingers against the table, her jaw tensing. Then she shakes her head as if to say forget it. "So tell me about the show. I want to hear everything."
"There isn't that much to tell," I say.
"Are you kidding? There has to be some gossip. Are any of the actors horrible?"
"Stanley, uh, Nicholas, is pretty horrible. He's a great actor but he's a pretentious tool. He doesn't talk to anyone. He doesn't take direction. Don't get me wrong. He's fantastic during scenes, but he's a total weirdo when we aren't rehearsing."
"Is he hot?"
"You're incorrigible," I say.
"That's a yes." Laurie stirs her coffee and takes a sip. "Damn. That really is good coffee. No wonder you were going all When Harry Met Sally over it."
Of course Laurie has to relate everything to some movie or TV show. "How is everything back home?" I ask.
"Same old, same old. I had a few meetings, watched a ton of TV, went hiking a bunch all by myself." She fakes a pout. "My friend Zack visited so I got to show him around L.A. He's one of those 'I'll never leave New York' guys."
"I never heard about this Zack."
"Don't worry. There's room in my heart for both of you."
"So you like him like him?" I ask.
"No way." She folds her hands together like she's negotiating. "You can meet him tomorrow. After I see your show."
"You shouldn't see it."
"Why don't you want your friends to celebrate your success?"
"If I was an accountant and I got a new job, you wouldn't come watch me work."
"I'm going to see it and you're going to be amazing," she says.
Laurie is damn excited. I'm not going to get anywhere by pushing this.
"Okay," I say.
I finally take a look at my menu. It's huge. Two dozen different kinds of omelets with a dozen different sides. Then there are pancakes and waffles and all sorts of other things that will put me into a guilt-inducing carb coma.
What's wrong with oatmeal? Why the fuck does everyone object to me eating oatmeal?
I glance up from the menu to catch Laurie staring at me. The second our eyes meet, she looks away. At her menu. "Damn, they have more stuff than I remembered," she says.
Deep breath. Sarcasm does me no good here. It only convinces her I'm defensive. So I nod, and I look back at the menu until I find something besides oatmeal that doesn't suggest obsessive health, restriction, or indulgence.
Something that will get her off my back.
When the waitress returns, with coffee thank God, I order the veggie omelet, no cheese, with wheat toast, no butter. Laurie hangs on every word like I'm reciting Sylvia Plath instead of ordering breakfast.
Laurie orders chocolate chip pancakes. With whipped cream. When in Rome, I suppose.
We hand the menus to the waitress and I turn all my attention to my coffee. To its creamy, robust embrace. The caffeine is finally making its way to my brain, and I'm braced for an all-out attack.
But I'd much rather avoid that.
"You want to talk about food, right?" I ask.
She shrugs. "What makes you say that?"
