"I'm out of the business. No ladies for me. You know that."

"Because of stupid Sarah?" he asks.

"No, because I'm done. I don't want a relationship. This is me time. Maybe in five years or so, I'll think about it."

"Five years? What the hell are you talking about? You're not going to have sex for five years?"

This throws me into a profound, if momentary, contemplation of five years without sex. And to give you some idea of my weakened mental and romantic state, the prospect almost sounds enticing. Think of it: No more praying to God that she doesn't roll over and face the wall when I give her the subtle "Can we?" signal by placing my hand on her right breast. No more transforming my tongue into a ragged scrap of sandpaper over the course of an interminable journey toward an elusive orgasm. No more testing the condom, post-coitus, for signs of leakage. God forbid any of the fruit of my loins should test the fragile wall of her uterus and leave her baking up a Brady Junior to one day cure cancer or solve the energy crisis. No more returning to a half-asleep body whose only epilogue to the rapture is to mutter, "And don't go hogging the comforter."

"I said nothing about not having sex," I say. Because when all is said and done, were there a pair of breasts and a taut naked stomach staring me in the face, I'd gladly ride that toboggan straight back down to hell.

"Then come out."

"Sex isn't my main priority right now. I'm trying to start a company. Invent things . . ."

"Is this because of the 'little problem' you're having?" he asks, and I feel my temperature rise about twenty degrees. Zach is my best friend. I tell him everything. But I never told him about that.

"What are you talking about?"

"Sarah told me."

"Oh my God, is that what this is about?"

"You need to get back on the horse," he says, drawing near and threatening to put his arm around me. But with a single look I back him off. "Shit, man. Sarah was such a miserable bitch, I'm sure I couldn't get it up for her either. You're lucky she didn't turn you gay."

"Dude! There . . . is . . . no . . . problem."

"That's not what she says."

"And when did you talk to Sarah, by the way?"

"I didn't," he says. "She left me a message on my answering machine. I'm pretty sure she's leaving the same message on everybody's answering machine."

"That's just fucking great." Now I need that Jameson.

We go to the bar and I have not one, but two Jamesons. I explain the whole situation to Zach, and how it was only in the very beginning of the relationship, blah, blah, blah. But he doesn't care. He tuned me out as soon as the Twister Twins walk in. Tara Clean and Darling Nikki.

Tara Clean got her name because she carries around the most recent copy of her AIDS test everywhere she goes, and Darling Nikki's been called that since the eighties when "Purple Rain" came out and it was every girl's favorite song. They're the "Twister Twins" because Zach's bar has a dance floor designed like the game Twister, and Nikki and Tara usually go out there in revealing clothes and start everyone off. Before long, everybody wants in. It's become the main attraction at the bar. The girls get a small cut off the net in exchange.

I check my messages at home, and there's this message from Phil: "Hey, man. I guess you're on the plane or something. I just wanted to tell you that Sarah called me. She said that . . . well, it doesn't matter what she said. But listen . . . I have a Viagra. It's been in my wallet for like four months, but you can have it if you want it. I got it because of that twenty-four-year-old that I was seeing, but she changed her number." Beep. My machine cut him off. Of course he calls back. "I don't know why she changed her number. We were getting along so well. Anyway, she did. So I never got to use it. And you can have it. But we can talk about it when you get back. Have fun in the Sunny State," he says, and hangs up. It's the Sunshine State, Phil. And right now I hate Sarah more than Billy Joel hates sobriety.

"Another shot, please?" I say. Zach hits me with a double this time, pointing out a beautiful girl who just walked in with her two friends.

"Check her out. She's fuckin' hot."

"Wedding band," I say.

"She sings in one?"

"No, jackass. She's wearing one."

"Good catch," he says. I'm so pissed right now, and I need to leave. I pull out a twenty and slap it on the bar. "You know your money's no good here. And where you going?"

"Home," I say, getting up quickly because I know he'll try to talk me out of it. I have a giant headache. Plus two fat girls are on the mic singing "Girls Just Want to Have Fun." "Look," I say as I point to the two girls. "Two more reasons to hate this song." And when he turns to look at them and starts laughing, I make my hasty exit.

Of course I run into Heaven in the elevator. What a misnomer that one is. This is the last thing I need right now. I don't even say anything. I think maybe if I don't say anything she won't say anything, and maybe we'll never have to speak again.

"You don't say hello?" she spews.

"Hello."

"Look, about what you saw-" she starts to say.

"I don't want to know," I say, interrupting her.

"Why not?"

"Because it's none of my business. You are none of my business, and I'd like to keep it that way."

"That's rude," she says.

"Oh, really? And what would you call coming into my apartment uninvited, opening my mail, which is not only rude but illegal, borrowing my money without asking, and attacking that woman today?"

"I didn't attack her and you're right . . . it's none of your business."

"That's right, it's not."

There's another moment of totally palpable silence. Then she comes out with "I have your mail." Fuck. Of course she does.

"Which is none of your business."

"Whatever," she says. This means she read it. Again!

"You've got to stop opening my mail," I say seriously. "Seriously. You can't just open anyone's mail all willy-nilly like that."

"Willy-nilly?"

"Just . . . don't."

"It's in my mailbox," she says.

"Look at the outside of the letter before you open it."

"That takes extra time," she says, greatly pained. "Time that I don't have."

"Yes, I know you have a very busy schedule, stealing things."

"I beg your pardon?"

"My ten bucks, that poor woman's freakin' toilet paper . . . what's next? Stealing Legos from children?"

"You don't know what you're talking about," she says dismissively. "And you weren't interested in hearing about what happened because it's none of your business, remember? So here's your stupid mail, and you can feel free to go fuck yourself." With that, she hands me my mail.

"Thank you," I say. "For the mail. Not the freedom to go fuck myself. But thanks for that too, I guess." She doesn't say anything. We're on our floor. She gets out. I get out. "Don't you want to crack wise about the content of my mail now, or something?"

"There was nothing good today." And she opens her door and goes into her apartment. Doesn't even say good-bye. Not that I expected her to, but I don't know. Maybe she's having a bad day, too. Why am I now feeling guilty? I don't need this shit. I'm not going to think about her. Fuck her.

Of course there has to be more to the story. She's not really a maniac. I know that. Or at least I think I know that. I just assed off because I'm pissed Sarah is making my life, and reputation, a living hell. Now I feel bad.

Maybe I should go and apologize. Or maybe not apologize, but at least find out what the hell is up with that woman. And then there's a knock at my door. She saved me the trouble. Good.

I open it, and holy shit. It's not Heaven standing before me, but Sarah. Satanic Sarah and her devil-may-care diarrhea of the mouth.

"Hi, Brady," she says. "Can I come in?" No. No, you can't come in, vile woman. I crack the door a little more and motion her in. I'm such a pussy.

"What can I do for you, Sarah?"

"I was in the neighborhood and I found your E.T. lunch box and thermos under my sink. I thought you'd want it."

"I thought I lost that!"

"Oh yeah. No," she says. "It was never lost. I just didn't want you starting a collection of kitschy lunch boxes all over the apartment. You and your stupid eBay habit. So I hid it under the sink where I knew you'd never find it. God forbid you'd actually hunt down a cleaning product."

How did I stay with this woman for two years? Well, in her defense, she turned into megabitch only when I broke things off. Prior to that she was just your garden-variety bitch. Bitchy during PMS, which is part of the rules, I get that. And bitchy every third or fourth day.

"Nice to see you," I lie. "And thanks for the lunch box back." Feel free to leave now.

"Nice place."

"Yeah, I like it."

She peers around the place. "There's only one bathroom."

"I'm only one person." Unlike you, you multiple-personality psychopath. Nice ass, though.

"Look, Brady. We both know we're going to get back together. I don't know what you're trying to prove with this moving-out thing, but enough is enough."

"Sarah . . . we are not getting back together."

"You are a loser," she says matter-of-factly. "And if you think you can do better, you're sorely mistaken. And wasting time. And risking me being with someone else when you finally realize this and come crawling back."

"I'll take my chances."

"Fuck you, Brady."

Just then the door is pushed open by Heaven, who sashays in and over to my refrigerator. Both Sarah and I are watching her. I don't know what the hell she's doing but she's doing it, and that's all that matters.

Heaven takes my orange juice out of the refrigerator, pops the cap, and takes a huge swig directly out of the jug. Then she puts it back, turns around, and smiles this killer smile that I didn't even know she owned.

"Hi, I'm Heaven. OJ?" she asks Sarah (who's about to have a nervous breakdown).

Heaven is my new favorite person.

"Who is this?" Sarah asks me.

"She just told you her name," I say. "Heaven is my neighbor. Heaven, this is Sarah. An old friend."

"Friend?" Sarah hisses. "I'm his ex. His very recent ex. And you should know that he has a wee bit of trouble getting it up."

"Really?" Heaven says. "I never noticed."

I think I love Heaven.

Sarah's head looks like it's going to explode. I swear to God, she's beet red. And maybe I've just watched too many cartoons in my day, but I think I actually see steam coming out of her ears.

"Well, you wasted no time, eh?" Sarah says.

"I gotta go," Heaven says, planting one on my lips before making her exit. "See ya later. And hey . . . nice meeting you, Sarah." And she's gone.

Sarah's eyes turn to little slits. "I'm leaving, too."

"Thanks for the lunch box," I say cordially.

"You're an asshole."

"So you've said."

And she leaves, too. I go to my refrigerator to pour myself some orange juice, but the carton is empty. She knew it was empty. She not only put back an empty carton, but she knew full well that it was empty when she offered it. She also knew Sarah wouldn't take it. It was just for effect. I owe her, big.

Heaven.

He owes me so big. Like . . . huge.

Brady.

Did she just kiss me?