She was afraid of color. The walls of her apartment were white; the floors painted black. She was passed out on her bed, buried under her white comforter. On the bedside table was a copy of Domino magazine and a book: “How To Meet The Man Of Your Dreams (And Get Married) In 45 Days.” In her fridge were ten bottles of Organic Raw Kombucha, original flavor. I drank some tap water. She was a women’s lingerie designer. I’m not sleeping with you, she’d said, after the first glass of whiskey. We met at a bar in the East Village. She said it was her birthday, which wasn’t true. We danced. Her friends left her with me. Take care of her, they said. I’m afraid of color, she said on the cab ride to her place. It frightens me. Once I saw a shade of red that made me cry for an hour. I helped her up to her apartment. I put her in bed. She was from Los Angeles. Her parents were Chinese. I forgot her name. I looked at her mail: Antonietta. Her parents had met in Italy, where they were studying. They named her after a chef at a restaurant they liked to go. On her other bedside table was a black, leather-bound book. I picked it up. It was her journal. I wrote today’s date. I met this wonderful man at the bar tonight, I wrote. This really wonderful man. The man of my dreams. But he’s gone. He left while I was sleeping. Will I ever see him again? I don’t know. I hope so. He didn’t get my phone number. I don’t even remember his name. But I knew the night was going to be special. I wanted a magic evening. It was magic, but now it’s over. God, I drank too much whiskey. I have forty-five days to find him again. Forty-five days to find him and get married. I really drank too much. I’m going to have some Kombucha now, original flavor. Oh, so tasty, Kombucha. So tasty and refreshing. I’ll forget all about him. Goodbye, man of my dreams.