Paris, My Sweet by Amy Thomas Page A

little bit of that little-girl envy. It was a strange pool of emotions that I suppressed by ordering another drink.
    Hours later, the powder blue twilight had turned to night and I had downgraded from vodka tonics to beer. All the couples had returned to their apartments to walk their dogs—clearly in training for the next step: babies. It was just the tribe of us single girls now. And as much as I loved my girls, I hated that New York was overrun by a million little groups just like us. It was inescapable: there were too many single ladies in this city.
    The talk naturally turned to advertising since we had all met at the same agency years ago and bonded over office politics (and those incredible Pâtisserie Claude croissants). Stories started flying about who was working where and which senior VPs were acting naughty. The salaciousness of the business and dishing about it had always been a guilty pleasure of mine. But as Krista let loose on her old boss who had had not one, but two, interoffice affairs, as well as a second child with his wife in the past year, I couldn’t rouse the proper disgust or delight. I dug for it, but—nothing. “The guy clearly has to go to sex addicts anonymous. It’s like he’s David Duchovny or something.” Everyone else laughed at the reference to the Hollywood star’s rehab stint for sex addiction, but I had started going numb.
    I didn’t know if it was the flood of emotions from seeing so many friends at once or if it was something else, but I suddenly didn’t feel like myself. I was nodding my head at all the right points in the conversation, but inside I was floating away. I couldn’t get close to anyone. These were friends who knew me inside and out. But they didn’t feel the same. The bar and city didn’t feel the same. I didn’t feel the same.
    â€œHave you been to the Standard Grill yet?” Mary asked. She must have seen my eyes going vacant and was trying to steer the conversation into firm Amy territory. When I had lived in New York— had it really been only six months ago? —I wrote restaurant reviews and roundups for the local pubs, and religiously read every magazine and blog about food, restaurants, and the local dining scene. The girls always turned to me for the best first date, brunch, neighborhood gem, old-school New York, cheap Mexican, cool design, best bathroom, of-the-moment restaurant recommendations. “It just opened in the Meatpacking,” Mary continued, trying to reignite my enthusiasm.
    â€œOh yeah, I heard that place is cool. The bar has ping-pong tables, right?” Melanie asked. Six months ago, ping-pong tables would have seemed novel. But ping-pong tables? Big whoop! They were de rigueur across Paris. I wasn’t taking the bait, even when Carrie chimed in that she had gone to the hot spot last weekend and been within spitting distance of Bruce Willis, who was followed two minutes later by Demi and Ashton, plus a pair of lumbering six-foot, three-hundred-pound bodyguards.
    This was the way things were now, I realized. For the past six months, my friends had been the ones scoping out and sizing up the newest, latest, coolest openings in Manhattan. They had been cruising right along without my tips and assessments, living in “my” city while I had been thirty-six hundred miles away. Things change every weekend in New York. Restaurants open and close. Bars go from “It” to “Over It.” Did I really expect that I could be gone for months and have everything remain the same? I was now a stranger in my hometown.
    â€œGuys, I have to go,” I said, putting my barely touched Stella on the table, debate over the most impossible dinner reservations hanging in the air. Everyone looked at me incredulously.
    â€œWhat? You’re leaving? Why? Let’s go to Café Select for dinner!” Mary said. Meanwhile, Carrie’s face was lit up from her