Money Changes Everything II

Have strange, upside-down universe lunch with the Contessa during which she complains about how broke she is. Her investments took a hit yesterday. Ask sourly whether or not she finally has her inheritance, whether or not she is now in possession of a one bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side, and whether or not she just got a promotion and thus makes more money. That is all true, she says, but she doesn't feel like she has any money at all. Ask her if she'd like me to take up a collection. She throws a soggy french fry at me, which the waitress sees, giving us both a look, and feel guilty by association. (Question: When don't I feel guilty?) The Contessa apologizes and then grandly offers to buy my lunch, which is an absolute first--actually first time that she offers and has the money, not first time she offers. Neither of us want to go back to work and it is a fantastically beautiful day, so we walk toward the river and the Contessa says that if she ever complains about money again, I have her heartfelt permission to stab her with a fork. Tell her that don't care to do such a thing, but she insists. Think, as am standing on West 11th and Bleeker, that will probably never again in life stand on this corner and promise to (the punishment has been made more extreme by the Contessa) stab the fork in her eyeballs if she ever cries poor again. Whence gratitude?! she asks. After promise, we buy each other ice cream cones from the Magnolia Bakery, and privately practice gratitude on walk back to work.