"Done!" Dree leaps off the elevator and rushes toward me. She holds a copy of Freedom in her hand. She wears a long, beige dress. It is linen and opaque. Her breasts, soft and doughy half spheres capped by erect nipples – their contours evident – compete for attention against her sun-bitten glossed lips. READ MORE

The bar is over. Law school is over. Everyone else is off on their post-bar vacations: Bali, Greece, Miami, Kentucky. I click through some photo albums on Facebook: happy faces and landmarks. Ryan Murphy didn't do much better with Eat Pray Love. The destination matters less than being some place else before the unemployment depression kicks in. I am hanging out at Andrew's. Midtown Manhattan is exotic enough. READ MORE

"I don't believe you," I say. READ MORE

"Did you know that Jason was engaged?" Dree is still on my sofa, feet and legs in the air, toes flicking against an invisible target. Her empty wineglass sits on the window ledge, the glass dirty with finger and lip prints. READ MORE

"I haven't seen Jason all week. He always says he is busy with bar stuff." Dree pours herself another glass of wine, all the way to the top. "More?" READ MORE

Exams. Graduation. Coffee.

Life is simple now. Preparing for the Bar Exam returns me to a younger state of existence, back to Regents and SAT prep, when scores mattered more than knowledge. The mornings I spend in a classroom-corralled in with people I have not spoken to since 1L year- learning law from a video screen. Lunch is freedom. Then there are afternoon review sessions and practice exams. Not passing is not an option.

"Everyone is in the same boat," Dree says while stirring the pasta sauce. She takes out a clean spoon and tastes it. "More wine."

She is making dinner. Dree has the idea that she should only spend $10 per day on food for the months of June and July, so that she can pay for her half of a trip to Cape Cod in August with Jason.

"Why don't you go to the Hamptons like everyone else in New York?" We are cooking in my kitchen. Dree didn't factor into her budget the need for kitchen equipment, pots and pans. "The Jersey shore is full of lively attractions too."

"It'll be the first weekend after the Bar. We thought it should be somewhere special. And Jason really wants to show me around." Dree has proved herself to be a dedicated cook of pasta sauces. Last week she made a bolognese that left my apartment smelling like bacon and thyme for days.

"Okay." I'm disappointed that she didn't pick up on my "Jersey Shore" joke.

Now that all of the ingredients are in the pot, she is still standing at the stove with a glass of wine in hand, stirring the sauce, leaning in to take in the smell, wiping her index finger across the wooden spoon to test the sauce's consistency, and then licking her finger clean for a taste. Car horns and rumbling trucks on Atlantic Avenue drown out Dinah Washington playing on my laptop's speakers. My air conditioner is broken.

Dree is busy filling a second pot with water for the pasta. There are corn breads baking in the oven. The back of her gray t-shirt is damp with sweat. She is wearing an apron but no bra. Her hair is in a loose ponytail that threatens to escape its elastic at any moment. I want to taste the sweat on the back of her neck.

"How are you such a messy cook?" My kitchen has seen better days. The stove top is spattered with dried bits of tomato sauce and diced onions. In the middle of the floor is the garbage can. I take out more paper towels from under the sink to replace the empty roll. The sink is full of half-used bowls and spoons. I pick my knife out of the mess and wash it.

"Stop! I'll clean up later." It's true. The two occasions Dree has made dinner here, she has yet to leave me with a dirty kitchen to clean up afterward. "Make yourself a drink and sit down." Dree has already taken the gin out of the freezer and is cutting up more lime wedges. She hands me the glass and pushes me toward the dining table. "Get out of my kitchen."

The defunct air conditioner unit still sits on my window ledge. I shout out to Dree. "Remind me to call my landlord about the AC." The heat mellows the edge of my anxiety, add the gin and tonic and I stop worrying how I will pay rent in three months. That's when the student loan money runs out.

"Fancy seeing you here." Jason drapes his arm around my shoulder, his chest already in position for a fake friendly half-hug. READ MORE

"You smell like peaches."

Nan wraps her arms around my waist. Her head rests comfortably on my shoulder. Her breath is warm. I lean back into her embrace, feeling the shape of her breasts against my back.

"Peaches and black tea."

She is standing on tiptoes now. Her lips reach for my earlobe, but her tongue gets there first. It's my weak spot. Every time she rims her tongue along the edges of my ear, I go weak in the knees. I reach back to touch her. She slaps my hand away.

"Peaches and black tea and lychee."

I close my eyes. Her lips trace a strange route along my shoulders, down my back, then up again, hugging close to my spine; each contact setting off tiny, watery explosions inside of me. I want to throw her on the bed. But her hands are clasped around my wrists, tighter than a crab's grip, holding them close to my sides, commanding me to stand as I am.

From downstairs: "Mom! Your car's here!"

"Peaches and black tea and lychee. And cumin." She issues a final verdict, then sets me free.

After our disastrous dinner, I waited a week before deciding to call Nan again. I had convinced myself that she did the right thing. She was being a good mother by telling her child the truth about her life. I should have been grateful for her honesty. I composed, then practiced an apology to excuse my sulking. This was becoming a relationship. I researched restaurant reviews for an appropriate locale: Torrisi Italian Specialties. I wanted our conversation, my soliloquy, about openness, communication, the giving up of misguided notions to happen in a place that resembled us: charming, sophisticated but unpretentious, and sexy. We had reached a juncture. Then when I called to make a reservation-and was promptly informed that they don't do such things-I was back on the edge of indecision.

But Nan had already beat me to the punch.

Nan Oyoung to vandthewhale 12:34 PM (2 hours ago)

V–,

I have to go to a conference in Irvine this weekend. Devon is going to stay with our neighbors. Come by for a glass of Sancerre, say 3pm, before I fly?

NMO

Devon is standing outside by the time Nan and I get downstairs. Her suitcase is in the foyer, next to the card table on which she keeps her pocketbook and keys. Devon has headphones on. He taps out beats with his feet while playing the chords on an invisible guitar slung at the hips. When he sees us, he comes back inside to take her suitcase. Nan stops him. She cups his face in her palms and kisses his forehead. He blushes, but doesn't say a word. As he walks to the curb, his shoulders sag momentarily, perhaps letting out a sigh, then quickly straightens again.

"He is a good boy." Nan says with a smile on her face. "Stay and take him out to dinner tonight if you have the time. I think you two will like each other better when I am not around."

I take Nan's hand. "I think you are being overly optimistic."

Devon has handed the suitcase to the taxi driver and is facing us again, looking like the same seventeen-year old boy who confronted me about my sex life.

"Three words: turkey leg sandwich." Nan hands me two brass keys on a leather chain as she closes the front door behind her. "In case of emergencies."

"You don't give up easily, do you?" I pull her in for one more kiss. On the curb. In front of the taxi driver, Devon, and anyone else out here in the streets on a Friday night. Fuck the world.

Nan smiles. She hugs Devon again and gets into the taxi. I am wearing my heels. Devon and I stand shoulder to shoulder.

"So, what do you say to a turkey leg sandwich?"

"Coffee or tea?" Dree is standing in my kitchen. Her yellow sundress is wrinkled. The ruffle at the hemline form an unruly wave, making the dress look even shorter than it is. Her hair is loosely braided into two pigtails. The heavy makeup she wore last night has been washed off. Her skin-a shade darker than cream-looks fresh. READ MORE