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“I know.”
“Got anything to eat in this place? I’m starving,” she asks.
“Maybe some peanut butter crackers left over from the blackout.”
Miranda goes into the kitchen and returns with the last of the blackout food. “Remember that night?” she asks, tearing open the package.
“How can I forget?” If only I’d known then what I do now. I could have started seeing Capote. We could have been together for two weeks by now.
“What’s Samantha going to do with this place anyway? Now that you’re leaving and she’s getting married?”
“Dunno. Probably find someone like me to rent it.”
“Well, it’s a shame,” Miranda says. I’m not sure if she’s referring to my leaving, or the fact that Samantha wants to hang on to her apartment when she has somewhere much better to live. She munches thoughtfully on a cracker while I continue to pack. “Hey,” she says finally. “Did I tell you about this course I’m going to take? Patriarchial Rituals in Contemporary Life.”
“Sounds interesting,” I say, without much enthusiasm.
“Yeah. We study weddings and stuff like that. Did you know that everything leading up to the wedding—the showers and the registering and picking the ugly bridesmaid dresses—was solely designed to give women something to do back in the days when they didn’t have careers? And also to brainwash them into thinking that they had to get married too?”
“Actually, I didn’t. But it makes sense.”
“What are you going to do? At Brown?” Miranda asks.
“Dunno. Study to be a scientist, I guess.”
“I thought you were going to become some big writer.”
“Look how that turned out.”
“The play wasn’t that bad,” Miranda says, brushing crumbs from her lips. “Have you noticed that ever since you lost your virginity, you’ve been acting like someone died?”
“When my career died, I died along with it.”
“Bullshit,” Miranda declares.
“Why don’t you try standing in front of a room full of people while they laugh at you?”
“Why don’t you stop acting like you’re the biggest thing since sliced bread?”
I gasp.
“Fine,” Miranda says. “If you can’t take constructive criticism—”
“Me? What about you? Half the time your ‘realism’ is just another word for bitterness—”
“At least I’m not a Pollyanna.”
“No, because that would imply that something good might happen—”
“I don’t know why you think everything should be handed to you.”
“You’re just jealous,” I snap.
“Of Capote Duncan?” Her eyes narrow. “That’s be-neath even you, Carrie Bradshaw.”
The phone rings.
“You’d better get it,” Miranda says tightly. “It’s probably him. About to declare his undying love.” She goes into the bathroom and slams the door.
