I also quickly discovered—as did Buckley—that we made better friends than lovers.

      Not that we ever got that far. Lovers, I mean. A couple of passionate kisses—searing kisses, mind you—was the extent of our almost affair.

      Then Buckley moved on and in with Sonja and I moved on and in with Jack and here we all are, defiant sin-livers, the last of a dying breed.

      “…so then I went and changed into a pair of jeans,” Will is saying, “and that cashmere sweater that everyone says matches my eyes…”

      So Buckley and I are destined to be friends who double-date and read the same books and are aspiring copywriters.

      Well, I’m aspiring.

      Buckley is already a copywriter, lucky dog. He freelances all over the city and whenever he’s working near Blair Barnett, we have lunch.

      Which is why he’s e-mailing me today:

      Hey, Trace, are you free for sushi at one? My treat. I’ll meet you on the corner of Forty-eighth and Second.

      Yes! Lunch with Buckley is just what I need to take my mind off the most unromantic Sweetest Day ever, which Jack and I spent watching Game One of the World Series.

      The Yankees were losing from the first pitch, at which moment Jack’s euphoria instantly transformed into despondency. By the time Raphael called at what he thought might be “halftime” to inform me that he and Donatello were officially engaged, the Yankees were down by fourteen and Jack was downright miserable.

      In the wake of Raphael’s phone call, so was I.

      Not that I wasn’t happy for the happy groom-and-groom-to-be, because I was. And still am.

      But Jack’s reaction was less than encouraging.

      I waited until the commercial break to announce the glad nuptial tidings.

      Jack said, “You’re kidding, right?”

      “Not at all.”

      “That’s crazy.”

      “Why? Just because it’s not legal?”

      “That too, but—”

      “Just because it’s Raphael?”

      “That too,” he agreed again, “but—”

      Because it’s crazy to get married, period?

      Was that it? I thought it was. I was waiting for him to say it. Before he could—if indeed he was about to—the game came back on, and the Yankees lost spectacularly. End of conversation. All conversation.

      The team somehow blew it again last night, and Jack was still glowering when I left him by the elevator a little while ago.

      Some weekend. I’ve never welcomed a Monday morning as wholeheartedly as I did this one.

      Hi Buckley! Lunch sounds great, I type jauntily. See you then and there.

      It’s been a few weeks since I’ve even seen him. He’s been working way downtown on a long-term project since late September. But it must be over, because—yay!—he’s back in midtown.

      “…and I just gave it everything I had…”

      I believe Will is recapping a recent cabaret performance.

      “And then somebody requested ‘Empty Chairs at Empty Tables…’”

      That, or his latest catering gig.

      “You know, from Les Mis…”

      Oh. Cabaret performance. I should have known. Will likes to pretend he’s a full-time actor. Rarely, if ever, does he freely acknowledge that the line he’s rehearsed most often in his career is “chicken or steak?”

      Toying with my cigarettes, I tune him out again and wonder whether Buckley will be able to shed some male perspective on my situation with Jack.

      Then again, as a fellow altarphobic male, Buckley might not be that insightful. Nor sympathetic. After all, he’s spent the last couple of years evading his girlfriend’s frequent ultimatums.

      Every time another Sonja-imposed deadline passes without the desired marriage proposal from Buckley, I somehow still expect her to carry out her threat and move out. But she never does. They just go back to living together until the next hysterical fight that results in the next hysterical ultimatum.

      It kind of reminds me of my soon-to-be-divorced sister Mary Beth’s ineffective single-parenting style. Only instead of a marriage-shy grown man, Mary Beth is dealing with an almost five-year-old who still has potty-training issues.

      If you ask me, both Mary Beth and Sonja are wasting their time with ultimatums. And not just because Sonja never follows through by moving out and Mary Beth never follows through by taking away Nino’s Game Boy Advance.

      “…and I told them of course I can do that, and more,” Will drones on. “And do you know what they said?”

      My nephew’s potty-training problem is clearly a psychological response to his parents’ messy divorce. Buckley’s unwillingness to commit is clearly a psychological response to his father’s untimely and tragic death.

      You know, sometimes I think I could really give Dr. Trixie Schwartzenbaum a run for her money.

      “Tracey?”

      Yes, obviously, both Nino and Buckley have control issues.

      So what would Dr. Trixie Schwartzenbaum advise?

      I have no idea, but the esteemed Dr. Tracey Spadolini would definitely advise both subjects to either shit or get off the pot.

      Will breaks into my brilliant psychoanalysis with an exasperated “Tracey! Are you even listening?”

      To your monologue on why you deserve to be a great big beautiful star? Trust me, Will, I know it by heart.

      I really should say that.

      But I don’t.

      I say, “You know what? I have to go. My, um, boss needs me to do something right away.”