I just assumed that B. and I would be going out last night. I mean, we’re in love. Of course we’d want to be together. So maybe I took her time for granted when I called Friday afternoon. “How about we go back to that great pizza place tonight?” I asked. And then, I assumed, back to her apartment for sex!

Assumed, assumed, assumed.

“I’m sorry, Harlan, but I’ve got other plans tonight; I’ve had them for a while,” Bertha said.

“Oh, OK, no problem,” I said, even though it was a huge problem. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing special. Going out with some friends from work. But one of them’s my manager, and it wouldn’t be good for me to change plans.”

There was something about the way she said it. The way she said “Nothing special” very slowly, with a pause before she continued, like she was stalling while she made up her story.

“I didn’t ask you to change plans,” I said.

I was being mean on purpose. I’ve been ditched enough times that I know when it’s happening. And I knew for sure that’s what was going on, because she didn’t acknowledge the slight or engage in a fight. She was too busy being relieved she was off the hook without additional questioning.

The only question is one I am afraid to ask her: who does she prefer over me?

Anyway, this morning I called her up and she said she had plans again for tonight. “Do I need to make reservations a week ahead now?” I asked.

“Don’t be an asshole,” she said. “I’m going out with some friends from my book group tonight. You’re more than welcome to join if you like.”

“Great. What time should I come by?” I asked. I knew she hadn’t expected me to take her up on it. What guy in the world would want to go with a bunch of women, all who know each other, when he knows only one of them?

“Come by at 5:45. We leave at 6:00.”

So I’m about to meet B.’s friends over dinner. I leave in half an hour. Unless I decide to kill myself first.