Love Slave. Jennifer Spiegel

do you love your boyfriend?"

      "Jeff 's a good man."

      "We've probably heard enough clichés for one night," he says.

      Madeline, at this very moment, makes herself known. She loudly puts down her empty caffé Americano cup, and it vibrates in its saucer, china moving against china. She tries to stop it with her fingers. "Sorry."

      I blink. "We each bring our own expertise to the table, Jeff and I. I don't know if it's really about love." Madeline gazes into her water glass, Rob stares intently, and I pontificate. "It's like we're each solving for x. That's exactly how it is. We're solving for x."

      Rob lets out a huge sigh. "I've always hated math."

      "That's sex without love, though, isn't it?" Madeline chimes in. "It definitely doesn't fit into your grandeur plan, your longing for the extraordinary —"

      "Thanks, girlfriend." I look at my watch. "It's been lovely, folks." I reach for my bag. "I have to give Jeff credit. He's decent. He's decent to me." I pull out a ten. "He's a decent man. We act like we're in love." I finish my water. "It's nice to have someone treat you so decently. He never approaches me as if he were just solving for x. I really appreciate the decency."

      Madeline pulls out a cigarette for the street. "Snuffy and Sybil enjoy the pretense of a committed, decent relationship. What's love got to do with it? Huh, Sybil?"

      I flutter my eyelids in her direction. "Touché."

      Madeline provides a wry viewing of her pearly whites.

      Rob grabs the check, pushing away my ten. "I'll treat for Indian tomorrow."

      "Rain check, babe." Madeline bats her lashes. " Platonic-male-friend plans."

      Rob looks at me.

      "You mean gay-male-friend plans," I say with a touch of mean.

      Why would I go for dinner with him after this deluge of the personal? I don't know, but I say, "I'd like that very much."

      On the sidewalk, we exchange kisses on cheeks like we're Europeans and not sad kids on a wintry Manhattan night. Madeline and I walk off together, heading to my Village basement, content with the combative quality of our conversation. "Six o'clock tomorrow at Bombay Café, then?" Rob calls after us.

      "Six o'clock," I say.