Love at 11 - By Mari Mancusi Page 0,6

round of drinks. It was going to be one of those nights, I could tell already. And it was only a Wednesday!

“Well, you were right about him being cute. And he’s so cool, too. He used to work on movies,” I related, trying to mask the dreaminess in my voice. He was so perfect. So, so my type. It was really too bad that he wasn’t available.

“Sounds amazing. When’s the wedding?”

“Rather soon, actually. Problem is, it’s not mine.” I gloomily sucked down a huge portion of my frozen raspberry margarita.

“Girlfriend?”

“Worse. Fiancée. And not a ‘we’ll get married someday, but we haven’t picked the date’ type, either. He’s getting married in three months. There are invitations. Caterers. Probably a Vera Wang white dress.”

“Yeah, at three months, you’ve pretty much lost your chance at getting your deposits back,” said Jodi, knower of all things wedding. “Might as well go through with it at that point.”

“Just further evidence that all the good guys are gay or taken.”

“Oh, Maddy,” my optimistic friend cooed. “There’s someone out there for everyone.”

I snorted. “Thanks, Pollyanna.” I took another sip. “I suppose now you’re going to tell me there are lots of fish in the sea, too.”

“Clichés become clichés ‘cause they’re true.”

“Yeah, yeah. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Tonight I’m celebrating my promotion at News Nine. That’s what’s important. I’m one step closer to Newsline.”

Jodi raised her margarita. “To Newsline!”

We clinked glasses, somehow managing not to spill any alcohol, and took deep sips.

“So. Um. Want to go check out the fake purses?” Jodi asked casually. Too casually.

I grinned. “Look at you, jonesing over there for your fake-purse fix. You’re completely addicted!”

We didn’t need any new purses at this point, but it was still fun to look at the latest knockoffs. At last count, I owned four Gucci, two Christian Dior, and nine Kate Spades. I was a sucker for Kate’s Sam bags. I only wished I could afford a genuine one with a sewn-on label to replace the oh-so-obvious fakes whose labels were sloppily glued.

“I’m not addicted,” Jodi protested, a bit defensively. “Ah, denial. The first sign of a fake-purse addict.” She swatted at me, managing to tip over my margarita. I jumped up to avoid getting drenched. Oh dear, she was more wasted than I thought.

“Nice one, drunk girl.”

Jodi, as much as I loved her, defined the word lightweight. Three margaritas was way over her limit. If I didn’t watch out, she’d be dancing on tables or stripping for the immigration officers at the border. Not that either of those actions would have anyone batting an eye in TJ.

“I’m so not drunk. The table was wobbly,” Jodi said, not yet willing to own up to her current state of inebriation. Problem was, to prove her point about the wobbly table, she wrapped her hands around it and wobbled it some more, succeeding in knocking over her own margarita in the process.

“Yeah, yeah. Definitely the table’s fault.” I fished in my purse for a ten and threw it down on the table as a sympathy tip for the guy who’d have to clean up the mess. “Come on, let’s get the hell out of here before the waiter comes back.”

Giggling, we got up and scampered away from the scene. Like a bug to light, Jodi was hopelessly drawn to the fake-purse store.

“Ah, my girls are back.” The short, skinny shopkeeper behind the counter greeted us with a big toothless grin. Sad to say, but we’d been there so many times that at this point he had a right to be named Godfather of Jodi’s firstborn.

“Hi, Miguel,” Jodi said with a hungry smile. “Got any new ones?”

“For you? My special customer? Si, of course.” Miguel reached under the counter, where sellers typically stored all the premiere fakes, and placed various purses purporting to be from top designers on the counter. Jodi immediately started grabbing at them and checking for obvious signs of counterfeit.

“Do you have any Kate Spades with a sewn-on label?” I asked, hopeful. I so didn’t need another purse, but a good knockoff was a good knockoff.

He shook his head. “Sorry my bastane una—my pretty one. Not today.” He paused for a moment, as if thinking, then added, “If you want to leave me your phone number, I can call you if one comes in.”

Did I really want to leave Miguel my phone number? What if he was some stalker? Sure, he looked pretty innocent, but still. You never knew these days.

I decided to give him my business