Ask Hilda if she will go to lunch with you. Over Reuben sandwiches ask her if she ’s ever had an affair with a married man. As she attempts, mid-bite, to complete the choreography of her chomp, Russian dressing spurts out onto her hands.

“Once,” she says. “That was the last lover I had. That was over two years ago.”

Say: “Oh my god,” as if it were horrible and tragic, then try to miti-gate that rudeness by clearing your throat and saying, “Well, actually, I guess that ’s not so bad.”

“No,” she sighs good-naturedly. “His wife had Hodgkin’s disease, or so everyone thought. When they came up with the correct diagnosis, something that wasn’t nearly so awful, he went back to her. Does that make sense to you?”

“I suppose,” say doubtfully.

“Yeah, maybe you’re right.” Hilda is still cleaning Reuben off the backs of her hands with a napkin. “At any rate, who are you involved with?”

“Someone who has a wife that makes lists. She has Listmaker’s disease.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yeah,” says Hilda. “That ’s typical.”