FIFTY-EIGHT

AN hour later, Tuck gave the actors a fifteen-minute break. While Esther served coffee and pastries to the super heroic cast, Nancy presented her crush with a generous slice of blueberry heaven, cradled in a lacy doily.

“Enjoy, David . . . I baked this just for you.”

The undeniably handsome underwear model flashed the blushing barista a toothy smile. “Thank you so much, luv. This looks super. Simply super.”

Nancy waited expectantly until he took his first bite. As he chewed, David threw her a wink with one of his Paul Newman blue eyes.

“Oh, it’s super good. Really, really super,” he cooed around a mouthful of sweet, tender cake.

Nancy’s smile was bright enough to light the second floor. “I’m so happy you like it. Let me get you another slice!”

Esther was beside me at the serving cart. “Seems like everything is super with Superman.”

“He is super, isn’t he?” Nancy gushed, arriving at our side. As she spoke, David raised his half-eaten cake with a smile.

Nancy giggled with glee and whispered, “Blueberry Boy Bait . . . it never fails.”

“Ouch.” Esther slapped her own forehead. “My feminist soul just cringed.”

“Oh, what is it now?” Nancy demanded.

“Your choice of vocabulary is so . . . prehistoric. I mean, this is the twenty-first century. Who talks about ‘boy bait’?”

David’s perfect mouth took another bite of cake, and he winked again at Nancy. She tiny-waved back.

“What’s wrong with boy bait?”

“Nothing, if you wear white gloves, a pillbox hat, and voted for Eisenhower!”

“Eisenhower? Is he one of your stupid Beat poets?”

“Oy gevalt,” Esther wailed into her own hands. “Those who don’t know history are doomed to wear aprons!”

“Look around, Esther. We’re all wearing aprons.”

Tucker and I laughed at that one while Esther steamed.

“You’re like a broken clock, Nancy,” she said, tapping her Powerpuff Girls watch. “You’re right twice a day!”

Unbowed, Nancy went toe-to-toe with her roommate. “How about you make like the Powerpuffs and go take a flying leap—”

I was about to intercede, but Tucker moved faster, jumping between the battling baristas. “Ladies! And, believe me, I use the term loosely. Let’s not make a scene!”

“Come on, Tuck! Don’t you find the words boy bait sexist and offensive?”

Hands on hips, Tucker challenged: “You’re the poet, Esther. Come up with a new name.”

“Okay. How about mate bait? It’s perfect. Gender neutral and free of power trips and social convention, because there’s no wife and no husband. Just a mate.”

“Fine, call it whatever you want,” Nancy said. “It made David happy and that’s what counts. Isn’t he a dream?”

Esther took a closer look at Superman. “I don’t know. I couldn’t go for a guy with Botox lips.”

“David doesn’t have Botox lips!”

“Sure he does, look at him. He’s gone full Mick Jagger. He’s got the pale complexion of Elvis, too.”

“Pale? David’s got a gorgeous, golden tan!”

Esther blinked. “Your gorgeously pale David is clutching his throat—”

“He’s . . . he’s probably practicing his death scene or something,” Nancy said, her voice uncertain.

“He plays Superman. Superman isn’t supposed to die—”

“He’s not supposed to fall off his chair, either!” I cried, rushing to the stricken actor’s side. “Call 911! David’s going into anaphylactic shock.”