Friday takes forever to arrive. If it’s true that time flies when you’re having fun, this makes sense, because this has been a miserable, wretched week. Fun has been permanently stricken from my work vocabulary. In fact, I can’t remember under what circumstances it ever was in my work vocabulary.

One thing I do know: I do not get paid enough. Not nearly enough.

But somehow Friday has finally gotten here, and I left work at three o’clock despite still having a desk full of problems. Oh, well. If anyone doesn’t like it, too bad. A girl needs a good chunk of quality time to get ready for her first date in a year.

Yes, it’s true. I haven’t been on a date since Drew and I broke up. By accident, not by design. Maybe Kari’s right and I’m just putting out some kind of anti-relationship vibe—at least, that’s what she’s been telling me for the past year—but whatever the reason, the unpleasant truth is that no one has asked.

I really wish she was here now to help me get ready, but she wouldn’t come; she said if Mitch saw her he might catch on to our little plan.

I didn’t have any trouble dealing with the makeup and underwear issues; I’m a minimalist as far as cosmetics go, and I wouldn’t even go as far as the laundry room in the basement of my building without my Wonderbra.

Okay, well, maybe there, because how else would I wash my Wonderbra? But I certainly wouldn’t go out.

But now, with the easy stuff completed, I’m standing in front of my closet, scowling ferociously at my clothes. I have a sinking feeling that my clothes aren’t intimidated.

It’s not that I don’t have anything to wear. It’s that I have too much to wear, and no idea which thing is right.

Okay, start with what you do know, I tell myself.

One thing I know for sure is that I’m not wearing the Vera Wang. No food or drinks.

I think about it some more and realize that’s pretty much the only thing I am sure of.

The problem with making a decision is that I don’t know where we’re going. Uptown or down? The Village? Harlem?

If I had to guess, I’d say I shouldn’t wear jeans. That’s not normally in anyone’s definition of “dress to kill.” But both times I’ve seen Mitch he’s been in jeans. Maybe he only frequents jeans and t-shirt type establishments. Maybe “dress to kill,” in this case, means “wear a clean shirt.”

But he’s seen me twice, and I was only wearing jeans the one time. So if he was paying attention he knows that—in my extremely fashionable opinion—jeans are for hung-over morning-after breakfasts at greasy-spoon diners, and nights out call for something a little nicer.

What did I wear to the engagement party? I check out the pile of clothes in the corner. Oh, yeah. Basic black sheath. I remember now; I was trying to look as if I hadn’t spent much time getting ready. It always takes so long to look as though you just threw something on.

Anyway, he’s seen me in my best Oh, this old thing? dress. So I should maybe go with medium-expensive but casual? I wonder if pants are okay.

This is ridiculous. It’s not even like it’s a real date, at least not in the sense of him being anyone I could possibly get involved with. It doesn’t matter what I wear.

But I can’t just put on any damn thing. I’m not going out looking like a slob, even if he shows up in mother-of-pearl snaps.

Oh God, he’s not going to show up in mother-of-pearl snaps, is he?

It’s not completely out of the question.

And it’s quarter of six, and I still haven’t picked out an outfit.

For lack of any better ideas, I finally settle on a pretty floral D&G tank with halter straps. It’s one of my favorite tops—sweet and feminine, flattering without being too sexy. And I got it on mega-super-crazy clearance so if the absolute worst happens and I spill something on it, it’s not a tragedy. After dithering for a while about my bottom half, I go with a pair of wide-legged black slacks with a high waist. Not gonna lie: I got them at H&M.

But they don’t look cheap, and I spent like a quarter of a week’s salary on the shirt; I’m calling it fair.

I glance regretfully at my favorite boots and tell myself to forget it—they cost literally twice as much as the rest of my outfit put together, and I’m not going to chance them when I don’t know what kind of dive I might wind up in. What if the floor is sticky? What if someone spills something on me? Instead, I retrieve my strappy black sandals from the corner of the living room, where I kicked them when I got home from the diner on Sunday.

Thinking about Sunday reminds me of that quick, subtle caress Mitch gave me right before I left. Even five days later, it gives me a little shiver to think of it.

Probably better, then, not to think of it.

Someone buzzes to be let in from downstairs, and I thumb the intercom button. I don’t bother with the camera button, which hasn’t worked since I moved in. “Yes?”

“It’s me,” Mitch says, and—no real surprise—even over the cheap, tinny-sounding intercom his voice is much as always. Which is to say, exhilarating.

“Come on up.” I push the button to unlock the inner door, and hear him push it open. The intercom crackles and cuts out briefly, and I sigh. I don’t know how much longer it’s going to last, and then what are people supposed to do? Throw rocks at my window?

I open my apartment door and pop the deadbolt out, then let the door swing shut. The deadbolt catches on the inside of the doorframe and stops the door from shutting all the way—what my mom calls “leaving it on the latch.” She calls it this when she’s warning me that my habit of doing it will get me raped and murdered. My mom is really quite sure that it’s only a matter of time before one of the countless rapist-murderers in New York finally gets me, and she refuses to visit to see how—relatively—safe it is. This is why it’s always up to me to go visit her, which is something she’s been nagging me about quite a bit recently.

But, back to the point: my building has the slowest elevator on the entire island of Manhattan, and I don’t have time to sit around waiting for people to knock, so I leave it on the latch for Mitch while I make sure the place is presentable.

I cross back through the living room—all eight by ten feet of it—and peek into the bathroom to make sure I didn’t leave anything embarrassing laying around in there. All clear. I shut the door anyway. No one wants to see my toilet.

It occurs to me that my bedroom is a pigsty and I should shut that door, too—but when I turn to do so the front door is open and Mitch is standing there. I scream a little, sort of by reflex, even as I realize it’s him.

He’s at my side in an instant, rubbing my shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “The door was open and—”

“No, I’m sorry,” I say, trying to focus my thoughts. It’s hard. A second ago he was over there, and now he’s right here—wow, he’s tall—and he smells fantastic and his hand is really warm and squeezing my shoulder just enough to feel great but not enough to hurt. I bet he gives a hell of a massage.

My heart is racing. From being startled, of course. Plus he is totally in my personal space.

“Still sorry,” he says.

“It’s really okay. The door was open because I wanted you to feel free to come on in. I just didn’t hear the elevator.”

“I took the stairs.”

“Why?” I never take the stairs. There’s an excellent reason for this: I live on the fourth floor, and I’m lazy.

“There was an old woman with a walker in the vestibule, and she said the elevator was slow.” He smiles at me—eye crinkles, dimples, and all. “I was in a hurry to see you.”

Dear God. What am I supposed to do with that?

“That was Mrs. Corinthos,” I say. “She’s just down the hall from me.”

“They should put her on a lower floor,” he says absently, letting go of my shoulder and looking around the apartment.

That’s actually really thoughtful and sweet. Who the hell is this guy?

“This is nice,” he says, and to his credit he sounds like he means it.

I look around to see if maybe my place got more sophisticated when I wasn’t looking, but it’s the same as ever. There’s a small kitchen area with a high table and two barstool-type chairs. Just beyond the table, the linoleum floor ends and carpet begins; that’s how you know you’re in the “living room” area. Almost half the floor space there is taken up by an enormous cranberry-colored chaise, threadbare and half-covered with a blue throw and a battalion of pillows—I like to be comfortable while I watch TV. There’s a tiny coffee table, at which I usually eat my dinner, and the TV, on its somewhat wobbly shelving unit. And a door to my bedroom and a door to the bathroom. That’s it.

I live here because it’s what I could afford in the neighborhood I wanted. It’s not what I’d call nice.

“Thanks,” I say. “It’s kind of small, but it’s home.”

“That’s all that matters.” He flashes that sexy grin that makes me forget he’s the kind of guy who wears mother-of-pearl snaps.

He’s not wearing any tonight, though. He’s still in jeans, and he’s still in cowboy boots, but he’s wearing a gorgeous lightweight sweater that’s almost exactly the same caramel color as his eyes. I love caramel. Not that that has anything to do with anything; I’m just saying.

Of course, he’s still got the hair and the scruff, but it looks like he’s made some attempt to tame everything into some semblance of order, and he’s shaved at least some of his face, so I guess some of that scruff is on purpose. Not everyone can pull that off, but he looks good. Not my type, but really good. Objectively, I mean—Kari was right about that. Broad shoulders, enough bulk under that sweater that I can tell he works out. Thick, strong-looking thighs, and his jeans, as usual, stretch over them in a really flattering way. It’s almost enough to make a girl want to get him out of them.

Not me. I mean some hypothetical girl who is definitely not me.

Okay, enough of that.

“Is what I’m wearing all right?” I ask.

“You look gorgeous,” he says appreciatively, looking me up and down very slowly.

I blush, both from his frank appraisal and because I’m afraid he’ll think I was fishing for compliments and I didn’t even tell him he looks nice first. And I can’t tell him now; it will look like I only said it because I didn’t want to be rude. “No, I mean, am I dressed-up enough?”

“You look gorgeous,” he says again, and favors me with another of those mouth-watering smiles.

Lord have mercy.

“I just don’t want to look out of place. Where are we going?”

“SoHo,” he says, as though this tells me what I need to know.

“Where in SoHo?” I ask.

“Nowhere you know.”

This isn’t helping at all. Dinner in SoHo could be anything from a falafel stand to a three-star restaurant. Why is he making this so difficult?

Exasperated, I say, “Look, basically what I’m trying to find out here is what am I going to pay for an entrée?” I don’t actually care—I can afford whatever—but this is the best question to ask if you want to know what to wear.

He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “I asked you out, remember? I’m paying.”

“That’s not why I—” I stop short, a little surprised. That wasn’t why I was asking, but I had sort of planned to pay for myself—which is not how people go on dates. It’s just that I haven’t been on one in so long, I honestly kind of forgot.

Once Drew and I moved in together, he stopped paying for me when we went out. He explained it as a natural progression in our relationship. We weren’t wooing one another anymore, and he wasn’t in a place to support anyone. I told him I totally understood. I’m not some kind of gold-digger, after all. So we split the rent and bills right down the middle, and we always went Dutch. It’s funny how things become a habit.

I think about it for a second and decide it will be nice to have someone else buy me dinner. But I still need the answer to the question. I decide what the hell, honesty is the best policy. “Mostly I was asking because I just want to make sure I’m dressed appropriately.”

His eyes do that up-and-down-slowly thing again and I get tingly in a lot of places where I am not supposed to be getting tingly. But when his eyes meet mine again, I kind of forget what I’m supposed to be doing.

“Yes,” he says. “It’s upscale, but not pretentious. And you look perfect.”

Okay, that’s good. “You wouldn’t lie just to flatter me, would you?” I ask, and if I’m flirting just a little bit, well who could blame me?

He shakes his head slowly—and yeah, he’s flirting back. “What kind of a guy do you think I am?”

I wish I knew. That’s exactly the problem, I guess: I thought he was one kind of guy, but sometimes he seems like another, and I don’t know where the lines are anymore. I don’t know what the rules are. And I don’t know how to reconcile this guy, who seems to be making up his own rules and appears to be totally comfortable with that, with the kind of guys I’m used to, who follow the rules I understand and behave in predictable and familiar ways.

“I don’t know,” I say feebly. “What kind of guy are you?”

“The guy of your dreams.” He grins and offers me his arm. “You ready?”

I grab my purse, tuck my arm in his, and let him escort me to the door. But when I stop to fix the deadbolt, something occurs to me. “Wait here one sec,” I say, and hurry into my bedroom.

I kick off my sandals and pull my boots on. They’re soft black leather with stack heels, and they make me four inches taller as well as making my ass look fantastic. And all this without throwing my back out or pinching my feet. Thank God they go with virtually everything. That’s why I chose these instead of the red ones I really wanted—so that I could get as much use out of them as possible.

Taller, and with at least a fifty percent improvement in my ass, I rejoin Mitch at the door.

“Hey,” he says. “You changed your shoes.”

I can’t believe he noticed. “I did,” I admit, locking up. “It’s probably silly, but I decided I like these better.”

“I totally understand.” He looks down at his feet fondly. “I wouldn’t feel right without my boots.”

I laugh, delighted. “Let’s go,” I say. “I’m starving.”