"I don't know. By his looks? His money? His whole slickster, tennis boy, agent bag?"

"He's not really a slickster," I said, trying to remember what exactly I had told Suzanne about Webb in the past. She had an infallible memory-that she often used against me. "He's actually pretty down-to-earth."

"A down-to-earth multimillionaire, huh?" she said.

"Well, yes, actually," I said, thinking that I had long since learned that you couldn't lump all people with money into one category. The wealthy were as varied as the downtrodden. Some were hardworking, some lazy. Some self-made, some born with a silver spoon. Some modest and understated, some ostentatious braggarts. But Suzanne's views had never evolved beyond our Dallas and Dynasty and Love Boat watching days (my sister and I watched a lot of television growing up, unlike Andy and Margot who were limited to a half-hour per day). To Suzanne, every "rich" person (a term she used derisively) was the same: soft, selfish, and likely "a lying snake of a Republican."

"Okay, then," she said. "So maybe you're just intimidated by the fact that he belongs in Margot's world, and you… don't."

I thought it was a harsh and narrow-minded thing to say and told her as much. I went on to say that I was well beyond such adolescent insecurities, and that the intimidation factor ended in college sometime after sorority rush when Margot was swept up in a sea of blond, BMW-driving debutantes, and I had incorrectly feared that her going Greek would dilute our friendship. Moreover, I told my sister that I clearly did belong in Margot's world. She was my best friend and roommate. And I was likely going to marry her brother, for God's sake.

"Okay. Sorry," Suzanne said, sounding not at all sorry. She shrugged as she took a bite of her burger. She chewed and swallowed slowly, took a long drink of Coke from her straw and said with annoyed sarcasm, "It was just a theory. Please forgive me."

I forgave her, as I could never stay mad at Suzanne-but I didn't soon forget it. In fact, the next time Andy and I went out to dinner with Webb and Margot, I fretted that my sister was right. Maybe I was the odd woman out. Maybe Margot would finally come to her senses about how different we were and Webb would steal her away for good. Maybe Webb really was an elitist snob, and he just hid it well.

But as the evening wore on, and I paid close attention to him and all his mannerisms, I decided that Suzanne truly was off the mark. There was nothing not to like about Webb. He was a genuinely good guy. It was just an inexplicable disconnect with another person. Webb gave me the same feeling I had as a kid when I slept over at a friend's house and discovered an odd smell in their basement or a foreign cereal selection in their cupboard. He didn't intimidate me; he didn't offend me; he didn't worry me with respect to Margot. He just made me feel vaguely… homesick. Homesick for what, I wasn't sure.

But despite this, I was determined to bond with Webb on some nonsuperficial level. Or, at the very least, get to the comfortable stage of things where we could be alone in a room together and I wouldn't be casting about, hoping for a third party's return.

So when Margot passes Webb the phone now, and he booms a confident "Hey, there!" into the phone, I pump up my own volume to match his exuberance and give him an enthusiastic, "Congratulations! I'm so happy for you!"

"We're pretty happy, too… for lo, these forty-five seconds! Your girl doesn't waste much time, does she?"

I laugh, wondering if he's annoyed or amused by our constant phone lifeline and our vow to visit one another at least once every other month, and then say, "Look forward to seeing you guys next weekend. We'll have to celebrate."

"Yeah, we'll have fun," he says. "And you, Andy, and I will just have to suck it up and drink for Margot, too."

I force another chuckle and say, yes, we'll have to do just that. Then Webb passes the phone back to Margot, and she tells me she loves me. I tell her I love her, too. Andy tells me to tell her that he loves her. And we both say we love the baby on the way. Then I hang up and lie back down next to Andy. We are facing each other, our feet touching. His hand is resting on my hip, just under my oversized T-shirt. We smile at each other, but say nothing, both of us processing the big news. News that feels way bigger than, say, running into an ex-boyfriend on the street.

And so, for the first time since I left that intersection, I feel a sense of perspective wash over me. Perspective that wasn't ushered in by sex. Or a fun dinner out. Or a night sleeping next to my adorable husband and awaking every few hours to hear his reassuring, steady breathing. Leo has no place in this moment, I think. He has no part in Andy's family. Our family.

"You want one, too?" Andy says, his hand moving around me, and then massaging the small of my back.

"One what?" I say, even though I know what he's referring to.

"A baby," he says. "I know you and Margot like to do things together."

I can't tell whether he's joking or propositioning me or speaking theoretically, so I just murmur, "Someday."

Andy's hand moves more slowly and gradually stills. Then he closes his eyes for a few more minutes of sleep while I watch his eyelids flutter and imagine someday, every day, with Andy.

seven

Thoughts of Leo fade almost completely over the next week, which I credit to my contented life with Andy, Margot's exciting news, and maybe most of all, my work. It's amazing what a productive, satisfying week of work can do for your psyche, and I consider myself very lucky (or as Margot would say-blessed-a nice, spiritual spin on the source of good fortune) to have the kind of job I can get happily lost in. I read once that when the hours pass in a blur while you work, you know you have found your calling, and although every day isn't like this for me, I certainly am no stranger to that immersed feeling.

I now own my own one-woman photography business, working on a freelance basis. I have an agent who books assignments for me-anything from advertising shoots for hefty sums, sometimes as much as several thousand dollars for a couple days' work, to smaller, editorial assignments, which I actually prefer from a creative standpoint.

I love portraiture most of all-perhaps because I'm not a very outgoing person. I don't talk easily to strangers, although I wish I could, and taking someone's portrait allows me to make that inroad. I enjoy meeting someone for a leisurely afternoon, becoming acquainted over lunch or coffee, and then getting down to business. I love the trial and error of it all, tinkering with various positions and lighting until I get it just right. There is nothing more satisfying than capturing that one, perfect image. My interpretation of another soul. I also love the variety of the work. Shooting an entrepreneur for Business Week, for example, feels very different from taking photos for a piece in The New York Times Style section or a glossy spread for Town amp; Country, and the people I'm photographing vary as much as the publications. In the past few weeks alone, I've shot a bestselling author, the cast of an art-house film, a college basketball star and his legendary coach, and an up-and-coming pastry chef.

In short, I've come a long, long way since my days of processing film on Second Avenue, and my only lingering regret about my encounter with Leo-other than that it happened at all-is that I didn't have the chance to tell him about my career. Of course I would rather he know about Andy than my work; but ideally, I wish he knew about both. Then again, perhaps he knows more than he let on. Perhaps the reason that he didn't ask about my career is that he has already found my Web site or stumbled across one of my more prominent credits. After all, I've sheepishly poked about for his bylines, skimming his features with a bizarre combination of detachment and interest, pride and scorn. It's a matter of curiosity-and anyone who says they are utterly indifferent to what their significant exes are doing is, in my opinion, either lying or lacking a certain amount of emotional depth. I'm not saying it's healthy to be past-obsessed, ferreting out details of every ex. But it's simply human nature to have an occasional, fleeting interest in someone whom you once loved.

So assuming Leo has come across my Web site or work, I hope he goes on to surmise that our breakup was a catalyst in my life-a springboard for bigger and better things. In some ways, he would be right about this, although I don't believe you can fully blame anyone else for your own lack of ambition-which was certainly a trend during our relationship.

To this point, I cringe when I think back to how complacent I became on the career front when I was with Leo. My love for photography never waned completely, but I certainly loved it with far less urgency-just as everything in my life became secondary to our relationship. Leo was all I could think about, all I wanted to do. He filled me up so completely that I simply had no energy left to take photos. No time or motivation to even contemplate the next rung on my career ladder. I remember riding the bus to the photo lab every day, well after I had learned everything I could possibly learn from Quynh, and saying things to myself like, "I don't need to look for another job. Money isn't important to me. I'm happy with a simple life."

After work, I'd head straight for Leo's new place, back in Queens, ever available to him, only returning to my own apartment when he had other plans or when I needed a fresh supply of clothes. On the rare nights we were apart, I sometimes went out with Margot and our group of friends, but I preferred staying in, where I would daydream about Leo or plan our next adventure together or compile cassette mixes of songs that seemed cool enough, smart enough, soulful enough for my cool, smart, soulful boyfriend. I wanted so much to please Leo, impress him, make sure that he needed and loved me as much as I needed and loved him.