"So why did you two break up?" Harriet wanted to know. "I would like to see if you can possibly explain this one."

"I told you why," I said. We were sitting in Swingers Diner in Los Angeles. "When do you suppose this kitschy 'Pulp Fiction' style is going to go out of fashion in L.A. diners?" I asked as I scanned the beer list and Morphine blasted out of the jukebox. Was 4 o'clock too early to begin? With Harriet, a full night of drinking was ahead of me. She'd arrived the night before from New York, and I'd decided on a whim to jump on a plane and meet her for the weekend. She was my kind of friend, but one look at her raised eyebrows and it was clear that the Spanish Inquisition was closing in fast.

"I like this motel we're staying in," I told her. "Thanks for encouraging me to come down. What kind of beer do you want? Does this diner serve cocktails?"

"You can buy me a beer," she said, "but I know what you're doing. Tell me what happened. I thought everything was going well."

"It was. I mean, it is. He's very nice and I really like him. But it's just not that love thing and we're both too old to waste our time. OK? Next subject." I swiveled my head, looking around for a waiter. "God, it's hot in L.A. I can't believe people really reside here."

"How do you know it's not that love thing?" Harriet asked. "Sometimes that comes later."

"Because I know." I waved at the waiter, who, bored, blinked at me and continued talking to his friend outside in the blazing heat. "One knows. One knows at a certain point. You know?"

Harriet was looking at me through narrowed eyes. "You don't know."

"Harriet! I know. Give me a little credit here. I like him, he likes me. We like running together, we like drinking, he's very generous and we have nice sex. But that does not a commitment make. OK?" I considered getting up and pinching our waiter, who was apparently reenacting his last night's acting class by doing a mime version of being trapped in a box. "How was your flight last night, by the way? I think I'm going to have a Bud Lite. Me, the beer snob. Surprised you, didn't I?"

Harriet drummed her fingers on the Formica and sat silently. Finally, she spoke. "When are you going to stop running away from committing to someone?"

I groaned. "Oh, God. Not again."

"I'm serious. What is wrong with this guy? You have not told me one concrete reason why you're not going out with him anymore. He sounds sweet, kind, smart -- you like doing the same things, you're attracted to him and him to you, so what is the problem here?"

"Harriet," I said, "it's not that simple ..."

"It is that simple. I think you're waiting for Mr. Ideal, Mr. Prince Charming. And that is ridiculous, because everyone has something wrong with him. Didn't they teach you to compromise in kindergarten?"

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N E X T+P A G E +| You're no spring chicken