It goes like this: Ethan Goldman has the perfect life, and I stumble around on the fringes. But tonight, as we share a prime table in a Manhattan bar, he’s the one stumbling.
“I earn the firm more billable hours than any other lawyer in the office, I’ve never lost a case, and yet every goddamn year, I get passed over for partner.” He punctuates each pause with a wild gesticulation of his beer-holding hand and I wince as a splash lands on a woman’s high-heeled foot.
This bar is one of the hottest spots in the city. The people that pack it are genetically and physically gifted; there are no crooked noses, no wrinkled suit jackets. If you’re here, you either know someone or you are someone.
I am not someone. I am a mustard stain on the collar of this establishment. Even the waiter ignores me. But I know Ethan.