"No, Victor," she says, shaking her head. "Contrary to popular opinion, that is most definitely not a good thing."
"Hey baby, why not?"
"Because it brings back our college years and I, for one, have no desire to relive them."
"Oh come on, baby-you had fun at Camden. Admit it," I say. "And don't look at me like I'm insane."
"Fun?" she asks, appalled. "Don't you remember Rupert Guest? Hanging out with him was fun?"
"He was a drug dealer, baby," I say. "He wasn't even enrolled."
"He wasn't?" she asks, confused, then, remembering something both private and horrific, groans, "Oh god."
"I remember Roxanne Forest, however," I say, teasing her. "And some really good times with that Swedish chick-Katrina Svenson."
"Oh gross," she sighs, then she quickly recovers and decides to play along. "Do you remember David Van Pelt? Mitchell Allen? Those were my good times."
A considerable pause. "In that case-not friends of mine, baby."
I recognize the current expression on Jamie's face-time to taunt-and then she throws me a name, but I'm staring at the black floor beneath us, trying to remember David Van Pelt or Mitchell Allen, momentarily zoning out, and I don't hear the name Jamie just mentioned. I ask her to repeat it.
"Lauren Hynde?" Jamie says, in a certain tone of voice. "Do you remember her?"
"Um, no, not really," I say casually, reacting to her tone.
"You must remember Lauren, Victor." She says this sighing, looking away. "Lauren Hynde?"
"It doesn't ring a bell," I say blankly. "Why? Should it?"
"You left me for her."
After a long silence, trying to remember the particular sequence of events during any given term, I end up saying, "No."
"Oh Jesus, this might've been a mistake." Jamie's moving around in her chair, uncomfortably, as if she's trying to unstick herself from the seat.
"No, I remember her," I say, looking directly at Jamie. "But I also remember that I'd taken a term off and when I came back in December you weren't around-"
"I also had taken the term off, Victor," she counters.
"Baby, the point is..." Defeated, knowing there never was a point, that there never would be anything that could wrap this up neatly, I just ask quietly, "Are you still pissed?"
"Oh yeah, it destroyed me," she says, rolling her eyes. "I had to move to Europe to get over the genius."
"Have you really lived here that long?" I'm asking, mystified. "That's... impossible."
"I live in New York, dodo," she says. "I work in New York."
"Why don't we ever see each other?"
"I think the combination of your self-absorption and my fear of just about everyone in Manhattan conspires against us."
"Oh baby, you're so tough," I'm telling her. "Nobody scares you."
"Do you know Alison Poole?" she asks.
"Um." I cough lightly and then mutter, "I'll pass on that one."
"That's not what I heard-"
"Hey, when's the last time you saw me?" I ask, cutting her off. "Because the Klonopin I'm on affects long-term memory."
"Well," she starts, "I saw photos of you at the shows in WWD last week."
"You mean the Todd Oldham show?" I'm asking. "Do you still have that issue?"
"No, you were at the Calvin Klein show," she says.
"Oh yeah," I say vacantly. "Yeah, that's right."
"I guess I became aware of you-and that I wasn't going to be able to escape you-when I saw a Gap ad you did a couple years ago," she says. "It was a pretty decent black-and-white photo of just your head and it said something like 'Even Victor Ward Wears Khakis' or whatever. It gave off the impression that you wore those khakis rather proudly, Victor. I was damn impressed."
"Did we-" I start, then shake my head. "Forget it."
"What? Did we end up hating each other? Did we end up the way we thought we always knew we would? Did I end up wearing khakis because of that f**king ad?"
"No, did we... ever do a fashion shoot for GQ together?"
A long pause. She stares disconcertingly at my near-empty martini glass. "How many of those have you had?" Another pause. "Boy-I think you need to get off the Klonopin, guy."