Returning to the couch, I watched as Barefoot Contessa taught us all how to host a dinner party in the Hamptons with simple elegance—and a Hamptons-size bank account.

A few hours later, with the imprint of the couch cushion pressed firmly into my forehead, I made my way back to my bedroom to go to sleep. Mimi had organized my closet so efficiently that all I had left to do was to hang pictures and arrange a few odds and ends. I quite deliberately removed the pictures from the shelf above my bed. I was taking no chances tonight. I stood in the center of the room, listening for sounds from next door. All quiet on the western front. So far, so good. Maybe last night was a one-time thing.

As I got ready for bed, I looked at the framed pictures of my family and friends: my parents and I skiing in Tahoe; my girls and I at Coit Tower. Sophia loved to take pictures next to anything phallic. She played the cello with the San Francisco Orchestra, and even though she’d been around musical instruments all her life, she could never pass up a joke when she saw a flute. She was twisted.

All three of us were unattached at the moment, something rare. Usually at least one of us was dating someone, but since Sophia had broken up with her last boyfriend a few months ago, we’d all been in a dry spell. Luckily for my friends, their spell wasn’t quite as dry as mine. As far as I knew they were still on speaking terms with their Os.

I thought back with a shudder to the night when O and I had parted ways. I’d had a series of bad first dates and was so sexually frustrated that I allowed myself to go back to the apartment of a guy I had no intention of ever seeing again. Not that I was averse to the one-night stand. I’d made the walk of shame many a morning. But this guy? I should have known better. Cory Weinstein, blah blah blah. His family owned a chain of pizza parlors up and down the West Coast. Great on paper, right? Only on paper. He was nice enough, but boring. But I hadn’t been with a man in a while, and after several martinis and a pep talk in the car on the way, I relented and let Cory “have his way with me.”

Now, up until this point in my life, I’d shared that old theory that sex was like pizza. Even when it’s bad, it’s still pretty good. I now hated pizza. For several reasons.

This was the worst kind of sex. This was machine-gun style: fast, fast, fast. This was thirty seconds on the tits, sixty seconds on something that was about an inch above where he should have been, and then in. And out. And in. And out. And in. And out.

But at least it was over quick, right? Hell, no. This horribleness went on for months. Well, no. But for almost thirty minutes. Of in. And out. And in. And out. My poor hoohah felt like it had been sandblasted.

By the time it was over, and he yelled, “So good!” before collapsing on top of me, I had mentally rearranged all my spices and was starting on the cleaning supplies under the sink. I dressed, which didn’t take that long as I was still almost fully clothed, and departed.

The next night, after letting Lower Caroline recover, I decided to treat her to a nice long session of self-love, accented by everyone’s favorite fantasy lover, George Clooney, aka Dr. Ross. But to my great regret, O had left the building. I shrugged it off, thinking maybe she just needed a night away, still experiencing a little PTSD from Pizza Parlor Cory.

But the next night? No O. No sign of her that week, or the next. As the weeks became a month, and the months stretched on and on, I developed a deep, seething hatred for Cory Weinstein. That machine-gun f**ker…

I shook my head, clearing my O thoughts as I crawled into bed. Clive waited until I was situated before snuggling into the space behind my knees. He let out one last purr as I turned out the lights.

“’Night, Mr. Clive,” I whispered and fell right to sleep.

Thump.

“Oh, God.”

Thump Thump.

“Oh, God.”

Unbelievable…

I woke up faster this time, because I knew what I was hearing. I sat up in bed, glaring behind me. The bed was still pulled safely away from the wall, so I felt no movement, but there was sure as hell something moving over there.

Then I heard…hissing?

I looked down at Clive, whose tail was at full puff. He arched his back and paced back and forth at the foot of the bed.

“Hey, mister. It’s cool. We just got a noisy neighbor, that’s all,” I soothed, stretching my hand out to him. That’s when I heard it.

“Meow.”

I cocked my head sideways, listening more intently. I studied Clive, who looked back as if to say, “T’weren’t me.”

“Meow! Oh, God. Me-yow!”

The girl next door was meowing. What in the world was my neighbor packing to make that happen?

Clive, at this point, went utterly bonkers and launched himself at the wall. He was literally climbing it, trying to get to where the noise was coming from, and adding his own meows to the chorus.

“Oooh yes, just like that, Simon…Mmmm…meow, meow, meow!”

Sweet Lord, there were out-of-control pussies on both sides of this wall tonight. The woman had an accent, although I couldn’t quite place it. Eastern European for sure. Czech? Polish? Was I seriously awake at, let’s see, one sixteen a.m. and attempting to discern the national origin of the woman getting plowed next door?

I tried to get a hold of Clive and calm him down. No luck. He was neutered, but he was still a boy, and he wanted what was on the other side of that wall. He continued to caterwaul, his meows mixing with hers until it was all I could to do to not to cry at the hilarity of this moment. My life had become theater of the absurd with a cat chorus.

I pulled myself together because I could now hear Simon moaning. His voice was low and thick, and while the woman and Clive continued to call to each other, I listened solely to him. He groaned, and the wall banging began. He was bringing it home.

The woman meowed louder and louder as she undoubtedly climbed toward her climax. Her meows turned into nonsensical screaming, and she finally yelled out, “Da! Da! Da!”

Ah. She was Russian. For the love of St. Petersburg.

One last thump, one last groan—and one last meow. Then all was blessedly silent. Except for Clive. He continued to pine for his lost love until four mother-loving a.m.

The cold war was back on…

Chapter Three

BY THE TIME CLIVE finally settled down and stopped his cat screaming, I was thoroughly exhausted and wide awake. I had to get up in one more hour anyway, and I realized I’d already gotten whatever sleep I was going to get. I might as well get up and make some breakfast.

“Stupid meower,” I said, addressing the wall behind my head, and I padded out into the living room. After switching on the TV, I turned on the coffee maker and studied the pre-dawn light just starting to peek in my windows. Clive curled around my legs, and I rolled my eyes at him.