Friend G, determined to make a social butterfly out of me (a somewhat lost cause) has invited me to join her table at the opening of a new restaurant. As I arrive, she ushers me to a corner booth, already inhabited by three women. Two are immersed in converation, so G turns to the third.

“Mel, this is Rita. Rita, Mel.”

I note her blue eyes, perfect skin, trendy hat that could be handmade and gossamer dress whose neckline hides nothing. Her face has a fleshy youthfulness that just misses beauty, but the black liner bordering her eyes brings out a hardness that hints at life experience. “Oh of course, you’re Boyfriend’s girl!” she says, flashing perfect teeth. “I met him a few weeks ago. He’s just adorable.”

I smile, complimented by her acknowledgement of his desirability, and resist the urge to ask, “Um, where exactly did you meet him?”

Sliding in to make room for me in the circular booth, Rita pulls a Treo from her downtown-chic bag and begins typing idly. “Oh shit. G, Carlos says he’s coming to meet us. Ugh, I’m so over dealing with him.”

“So what do you do in the city?” I ask as she lowers the device and reaches for her wine. I feel slightly hypocritical asking the question so quickly, but I can’t suppress my urge to know the answer.

She smiles, undeterred. “I’ve started my own fashion label. It’s geared towards women in their early twenties. I’ve been picked up by a few stores, we’re in development stages.” Her tone is almost bored; clearly impressing me isn’t high on her agenda. She raises her head to greet a man approaching the table. His suit and hair are immaculate, and an emerald silk handkerchief peeks from his coat pocket.

“Anthony! Come here, lover. Give me a kiss,” Rita coos.

He leans over the table for an elaborate double cheek kiss. “Darling! So glad you’re here! How’s my favorite goddess?”

“Oh, you’re sweet. Melissa, have you met Anthony?”

He turns to me with a flourish. “Nice to meet you. Welcome to my place.”

So he named the restaurant after himself. How original. “You’re Anthony as in ‘Anthonys?’” I try not to sound impressed.

“Yes. I have two other places as well, and I’m opening a club next month. You should come to the opening; Rita can tell you the details. She’ll be the first name on the front door list.” He levels a flirtatious grin across the table, which she parries with a coy look.

“Oh Anthony, you’re such a doll. Would you mind terribly getting us some more wine?”

“Of course. Anything you like, on the house. Maybe that pinot you like?”

“Only if you still have the 2003. Anything from a later year tastes like gasoline.”

We all laugh a bit too loudly at her attempt at wit. I realize I’m falling into the pattern of the group, clinging to her every word, desperately catering to her whims. I’m suddenly jealous; it’s a rare skill, captivating an audience, inducing their willingness to do or say anything just to please you.

The Treo is back, and Rita lets out a wail. “Now Carlos says he isn’t coming! That asshole! He won’t even bother to come out to see me!” Her face morphs into an exaggerated pout.

G shakes her head. “Honey, I told you he doesn’t take you seriously. I mean it’s not that surprising that a 38-year-old man thinks he can treat a twenty-year-old girl without respect.”

I promptly spill white wine on my skirt as my hand nearly drops. “Twenty? You’re twenty years old?” I realize that my popping eyes and incredulous tone might be rude, but shock vetoes social propriety.

“Yeah, I turned twenty a month and a half ago,” Rita replies, oblivious to my disbelief.

I lean back and rest my head against the booth, utterly stunned. At twenty I was sequestered in a New Hampshire dorm, my fashion knowledge limited to the North Face and L.L. Bean catalogues, my wildest idea of a night out swilling warm Milwaukee’s Best in urine-perfumed frat basements while Erasure blasted from a boombox in the corner.

“I know, Carlos really is too old for me. But I love his penthouse; it has a roof deck with a hot tub!” Rita giggles. Now that I know her age, every word emerging from her mouth is seeped in adolescence. I recall her earlier comment and a question comes out in a rush:

“Um, I’m sorry, but where was it exactly that you met my boyfriend?”

She looks annoyed. “I met G and her friends for brunch a few weeks ago. He stopped by.”

Air whistles through my nose as I release a breath. “Ah. Just wondering.”