“Oh, Carrie,” she says sadly.

“I know.”

“Got anything to eat in this place? I’m starving,” she asks.

“Maybe some peanut butter crackers left over from the blackout.”

Miranda goes into the kitchen and returns with the last of the blackout food. “Remember that night?” she asks, tearing open the package.

“How can I forget?” If only I’d known then what I do now. I could have started seeing Capote. We could have been together for two weeks by now.

“What’s Samantha going to do with this place anyway? Now that you’re leaving and she’s getting married?”

“Dunno. Probably find someone like me to rent it.”

“Well, it’s a shame,” Miranda says. I’m not sure if she’s referring to my leaving, or the fact that Samantha wants to hang on to her apartment when she has somewhere much better to live. She munches thoughtfully on a cracker while I continue to pack. “Hey,” she says finally. “Did I tell you about this course I’m going to take? Patriarchial Rituals in Contemporary Life.”

“Sounds interesting,” I say, without much enthusiasm.

“Yeah. We study weddings and stuff like that. Did you know that everything leading up to the wedding-the showers and the registering and picking the ugly bridesmaid dresses-was solely designed to give women something to do back in the days when they didn’t have careers? And also to brainwash them into thinking that they had to get married too?”

“Actually, I didn’t. But it makes sense.”

“What are you going to do? At Brown?” Miranda asks.

“Dunno. Study to be a scientist, I guess.”

“I thought you were going to become some big writer.”

“Look how that turned out.”

“The play wasn’t that bad,” Miranda says, brushing crumbs from her lips. “Have you noticed that ever since you lost your virginity, you’ve been acting like someone died?”

“When my career died, I died along with it.”

“Bullshit,” Miranda declares.

“Why don’t you try standing in front of a room full of people while they laugh at you?”

“Why don’t you stop acting like you’re the biggest thing since sliced bread?”

I gasp.

“Fine,” Miranda says. “If you can’t take constructive criticism-”

“Me? What about you? Half the time your ‘realism’ is just another word for bitterness-”

“At least I’m not a Pollyanna.”

“No, because that would imply that something good might happen-”

“I don’t know why you think everything should be handed to you.”

“You’re just jealous,” I snap.

“Of Capote Duncan?” Her eyes narrow. “That’s be-neath even you, Carrie Bradshaw.”

The phone rings.

“You’d better get it,” Miranda says tightly. “It’s probably him . About to declare his undying love .” She goes into the bathroom and slams the door.

I take a breath. “Hello?”

“Where the hell have you been?” Samantha shrieks.

This is very unlike her. I hold the phone away from my ear. “Were you worried? You’re going to be so proud of me. I lost my virginity.”

“Well, good for you,” she says briskly, which is not the reaction I was expecting. “I’d love to celebrate, but unfortunately, I’ve got a crisis of my own on my hands. I need you to get over to Charlie’s place immediately.”

“But-”

“Just come, okay? Don’t ask questions. And bring Miranda. I need all the help I can get. And could you pick up a box of garbage bags on the way? Make sure they’re the big ones. The kind those pathetic people in the suburbs use for leaves.”

“Enjoy it,” Samantha says, gesturing to her face as she opens the door to Charlie’s apartment. “This is the only time you’re ever going to see me cry.”

“Is that a promise?” Miranda says tartly. We’re still a bit edgy from our almost-fight. If it weren’t for Samantha’s crisis call, we’d probably be at each other’s throats.

“Look,” Samantha says, dabbing her eye and holding out her finger for inspection. “That is an actual tear.”

“Could have fooled me,” I say.

Miranda looks around in awe. “Wow. This place is nice. ”

“Check out the view,” Samantha says. “It’s the last time you’ll see it, too. I’m leaving.”

“What?”

“That’s right,” she says, strolling to the sunken living room. There’s a stunning vista of Central Park. You can practically see right into the duck pond. “The wedding’s off,” she declares. “Charlie and I are over .”

I look at Miranda and roll my eyes. “Surely, this too shall pass,” I murmur, heading to the window for a better view.

“Carrie, I’m serious,” Samantha says. She goes to a glass tray on wheels, picks up a crystal decanter, and pours herself a healthy dose of whiskey. “And I have you to thank for it.” She slugs back her drink and turns on us. “Actually, I have both of you to thank.”

“Me?” Miranda asks. “I’ve hardly even met the guy.”

“But you’re the one who told me to tell him.”

“Tell him what?” Miranda says, mystified.

“About my condition.”

“Which is?”

“You know. The thing,” Samantha hisses. “The lining…”

“Endometriosis?” I ask.

Samantha holds up her hands. “I don’t want to hear that word. Ever again.”

“Endometriosis is hardly a ‘condition,’” Miranda remarks.

“Try telling that to Charlie’s mother.”

“Oh boy.” I realize I could use a drink too. And a cigarette.

“I don’t get it.” Miranda goes to the Plexiglas case that contains Charlie’s collection of sports memorabilia. She leans closer. “Is that a real baseball?”

“What do you think? And yes, that really is Joe DiMaggio’s signature,” Samantha snaps.

“I thought you were picking out China patterns,” Miranda says, as Samantha gives her a look and disappears down the hallway.

“Hey, I just figured something out. You know how Samantha always says Charlie wanted to be a baseball player and his mother wouldn’t let him?” I ask. “Maybe Charlie secretly thinks he’s Joe DiMaggio and Samantha is Marilyn Monroe.”

“That’s right. And remember how Joe DiMaggio always resented Marilyn’s sexuality and tried to turn her into a housewife? It’s practically textbook.”

Samantha returns with a pile of clothes in her arms, which she dumps onto the Ultrasuede couch as she glares at me. “And you’re as much to blame as Miranda. You were the one who told me to be a little more real.”

“I didn’t mean it though. I never thought-”

“Well, here’s what real gets you in New York.” She runs back to the bedroom and returns with another pile, which she drops at our feet. Then she grabs the box of garbage bags, rips one open, and begins frantically shoving clothes into the bag. “This is what it gets you,” she repeats, her voice rising. “A kick in the teeth and fifty cents for the subway.”

“Whoa. Are you serious?” I ask.

She pauses for a moment and thrusts out her arm. “See this?” She indicates a large gold Rolex encrusted with diamonds.

“Is that real too?” Miranda gasps.

“Hold on,” I caution. “Why would someone who’s breaking up with you give you a giant Rolex?”

“You could probably buy a small country with that,” Miranda adds.

Samantha rocks back on her heels. “Apparently, it’s a tradition. When you break off an engagement, you give your ex-fiancée a watch.”

“You should get engaged more often.”

In a fury, Samantha rips off the watch and throws it against the Plexiglas case, where it bounces off harmlessly. Some things are simply indestructible. “How did this happen to me? I had it all figured out. I had New York by the balls. Everything was working. I was so good at being someone else.”

If only we could all put our hearts in a Plexiglas case, I think, as I kneel down next to her. “You weren’t so good about showing up at Kleinfeld,” I say gently.

“That was an exception. One slipup. And I made up for it by telling Glenn I’d be happy to use her decorator to redo the apartment. Even if it meant living with chintz. What’s wrong with a few flowers here and there? I can do roses if I have to-” And suddenly, she bursts into tears. Only this time, they’re real.

“Don’t you get it?” she sobs. “I’ve been rejected. For having faulty fallopian tubes.”

In the annals of dating, being rejected for your fallopian tubes has got to be right up there with-well, you name it, I suppose. But maybe dating in New York really is like what Samantha always says: everything counts, even the things you can’t see.

And what you can see is usually bad enough.

I mentally count the number of garbage bags strewn around Charlie’s apartment. Fourteen. I had to run out and get another box. Two years in a relationship and you can really accumulate a lot of stuff.

“Baggage,” Samantha says, kicking one of the bags out of the way. “All baggage.”

“Hey!” I exclaim. “There are Gucci shoes in that one.”

“Halston, Gucci, Fiorucci? Who cares?” She throws up her hands. “What’s the difference when your entire life has been ripped away?”

“You’ll find someone else,” Miranda says nonchalantly. “You always do.”

“But not someone who will marry me. Everyone knows the only reason a man in Manhattan ever says ‘I do’ is because he wants children.”

“But you don’t know that you can’t have children,” Miranda points out. “The doctor said-”

“Who cares what he said? It’s always going to be the same old story.”

“You don’t know that,” I insist. I grab a bag and pull it toward the door. “And do you really want to spend the rest of your life pretending to be someone you’re not?” I take a breath and gesture at the Plexiglas furnishings. “Surrounded by plastic ?”

“All men are jerks. But you knew that.” Miranda retrieves the watch from under the coffee table. “I guess that’s the last of it,” she says, holding out the Rolex. “Don’t want to leave this behind.”