Zadie stared into the mirror, lipstick in hand. She dreaded going back out into the dark and noisy dining area, where she would pretend to be interested in what Nico, her long-time boyfriend, had to say. It would be baseball, or business, the onlty things he talked about. No, complained. He complained, constantly. About not meeting sales goals, about his bosses, or vendors. He complained that the Yankees were the victims of bad luck, or injuries. And she listened.

She took another breath, touched up her lipstick, and then she was ready to face him again. Zadie carefully made her way through the crowded room, and sat down in the oversized booth where Nico tore into some fried fat dish. He didn’t say anything, barely even looked at her.

“I took some interesting pictures down in West Village today,” she said, hoping to see some glimmer of interest. “I guess there was some kind of impromptu street performance going on.” Nothing.

“Nico.” He continued to eat. “Tell me about your day.”