32aa by Michelle Cunnah Page A

Rachel tells us, nodding knowingly.
    And then, when we both gaze at her in complete incomprehension, she adds an explanation.
    “His electron field is totally full, so he’s completely stable and doesn’t need to bond at all.”
    This does not cheer up poor Tish. This does not make me feel good about life in general.
    Are there no decent straight men left in the world?

6
The Worm Turns
    TO DO
Get sofa and rug dry-cleaned. Why bother?
Pack worldly possessions. Go shopping.
Clean apartment in advance of moving out. After all, a few dirty dishes, crumbs on the floor, and wine stains will only add character. Plus, this will irritate Adam, which is good. (Also, am not intending to move out yet…)
    Sunday, 7 A . M .
    I have just dragged myself out of bed and poured half a pot of coffee down my throat in an attempt to wake up. Tish and Rachel are convinced that if left home alone today, I will do myself some serious damage because of being seriously depressed about the whole Adam/Stella affair and nonpromotion disaster. I can’t imagine why they think I’ll hurt myself, because I am completely allergic to pain in any shape or form. The worst I could do to Adam would be to upset his cream décor—although I have had dark thoughts about repainting the apartment black and red in his absence. (Obviously symbolic—black for the death of love and red for my bleeding heart…and revenge.)
    Rachel and I are equally convinced that Tish will do something radically self-destructive because of Rufus’s apparentchange of heart re: their nondate and his nonappearance at the deli yesterday. Although Tish is gentle and sweet, she is half Italian, and you just never know when the hot, Latin-blooded side of her genetic makeup might rear its head.
    Tish and I are certain that Rachel will commit murder, thereby destroying her chances of ever receiving the Nobel Prize for her contribution to science. Which would be tragic.
    Hugh Peters, the super-brain, top scientist who joined Rachel’s research team a month ago (and is, in effect, her boss), is the new bane of her existence. This is obviously because he’s cleverer than she is but we don’t tell her this. And because she can’t bully him into submission, as she does with all her other work colleagues, but we don’t tell her this, either. She cannot say his name without the accompaniment of the most foul curse words you can imagine. I wonder if someone ought to warn Hugh Peters about Rachel’s black belt?
    Because of this shared concern over our well-being (we are lovely, worthwhile people), we agreed, last night, after takeout Chinese and many glasses of Adam’s Special Reserve wine, to meet at the gym at nine this morning.
    Speaking of Adam’s Special Reserve wine…his sofa is a complete mess. I think Rachel did it accidentally on purpose, mid-“fucking bastard” rant, to punish Adam. I got a bit carried away and “accidentally” spilled some on the cream rug, too. At least it adds a bit of lived-in color to this antiseptic place. Serves him right, ionic bonding bastard!
    Anyway. Meeting at the gym at nine A . M . on Sunday morning is equally as bad as meeting at the gym at nine A . M . on Saturday morning, but we have agreed to do this because we are Supporting Each Other in Our Despair. Plus, we do not have significant others to spend our weekends with. And this fact does not make us sad and unlovable, oh no.
    This makes us choosy.
    We do not have mates because we choose not to select one from the poor array of single males we have so far encountered in this city.
    Yoga will be followed by breakfast at the really great Spanish café on Washington, because Tish has forbidden us to ever darken Rufus’s deli door again. I wonder, fleetingly, if Rufus’s business account will swing violently into the red because of our boycott. I foresee a massive downward surge in muffin sales.
    After delicious cake therapy, we are heading off for some retail therapy.
    We are going