Lanie was surprised that so few of her women friends had babies. That so few of the guys had careers. Not only did no one she knew grow wiser with age; the common consensus was that any good idea had already been thought, so there wasn’t much point in thinking.

All of that surprised her, but nothing stunned her so much as the way she saw people lie to themselves. She often watched her acquaintances at parties or on vacations. What she usually witnessed were people who were less than happy. Maybe they were good sports trying to have a nice time, but usually they were dissatisfied, putting in hours at an event that didn’t live up to their expectations. Wearing false smiles. Stifling yawns. Forcing gaiety. Growing testy.

That wasn’t the surprise part. Most of the time the event didn’t live up to Lanie’s anticipation either. No, the stunner was the debriefing. In the conversations afterward, those same participants claimed to have had a wonderful experience. Really. Best (fill in the blank) ever. And Lanie had watched that witness have, at best, a mediocre time.

It got worse. The person may have known at first that she or he was putting a positive spin on a boring party. But faster than Lanie could even record it, the speaker began to act as if she or he believed the spin.

It wasn’t just parties. When Lanie’s friend Nancy was around thirty-five she had a secret abortion. She was married and her husband would have liked a child, but they already had two and Nancy was convinced they couldn’t handle another kid. Lanie helped get her through the procedure; as far as Guy and the world knew, Nancy had a miscarriage and then a complication which resulted in a tubal ligation. That therapeutic abortion was called a miscarriage, miscarriage, miscarriage so widely, that by the time the aspiring fetus would have been ten Lanie heard Nancy refer to the experience as a miscarriage even to her.

She tried to talk to Nancy about it. Coming away from a good dinner at a downtown restaurant, Lanie broached the old subject. Nancy acted confused. Then she stammered out her pale insistence; she said she’d never had an abortion.

Lanie was stunned by Nancy’s denial. She went silent, considering the inaccuracy of recollection and also how estranged or even hateful some life partners are toward each other, when they were interrupted. As often happened, Lanie’s posture or stride triggered something in a stranger, and an interaction occurred.

They were about a block from Nancy’s car. Lanie was half-aware of a street person, young and female, in torn jeans, light shirt, denim jacket, athletic shoes, sitting on wide concrete steps, eating something out of a small fast-food bag. The young woman jumped to a stand and accosted her:

“I know you, bitch!” She placed herself about three feet in front of Lanie, a little to her left. She was a few inches taller than Lanie’s five foot six, with a fine light mahogany complexion and hot chocolate eyes. “I hear you talkin’ about blowin’ things up! I see your nasty grin!”

At first Lanie was scared. Then angry. A familiar stubbornness bloomed in her and she told herself that the street was hers as much as anyone else’s. She felt Nancy tense beside her, but she resumed walking. The young woman followed, still ranting. Every impulse in Lanie was to speed up, so she deliberately slowed down. And felt the young woman, behind her, slowing too. She stepped yet slower and she heard from the diminishing voice that her antagonist was allowing a gap to widen between them.

Suddenly she understood. That young woman had mistaken her for someone else. That young woman had, in fact, begun to realize her own mistake even while she confronted Lanie. There had been understanding at last, in those hot chocolate eyes. Momentary beautiful connection.

“Crazy street person,” Nancy concluded. Lanie couldn’t agree less.