“My book’s out in paperback today,” Michael tells me. “My third book.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I nod. I’m jealous. The room is swarming with writers, artists, and bloggers. The Empire State Building looms over thick tortoise shell glasses and conversation.
I pick up a stray pair of scissors and press Michael’s head back against the couch. I cut a few snips around his ears. People look over and then go back to the conversations studded with regret. A light dusting of hair shimmers down into the salsa.
Michael and I talk about his last publicist. “Some of them are idiots, but this one was amazing. She did wonders with my book.”
I sip my vodka.
“So what’s it feel like to be a publicist? You’re too smart to be one.” He was half-joking. “How’s that?”
I know. I say this out loud and make a joke about the novel I abandoned in college, the hypothetical writing career I gave up for health insurance, and how much I loathe being grouped into the unholy category of publicity girls.
But Michael has stopped paying attention. “Also, your boobs. That must be a real distraction for some people.”
We both snicker. I gulp down the rest of my vodka.
Perhaps I should finish that novel.