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must have been a total bore, going on and on about myself. The cosmopolitans made me do it! I only had one or two . . . or five! I don’t remember. Now I’m sitting in my office, downing Tylenol and black coffee with the lights off. And looking at your business card. Benji Steiner: Graphic Design. Such a cool card—did you design it? I mean, you probably did, duh! Anyway, you hardly told me anything about you. Didn’t even know you were a graphic designer until I looked at your card. You live somewhere in Maryland. Wheaton? Silver Spring? Somewhere out the red line on the Metro, right? I don’t know where all those places are, really. I’ll look for a map online. Anyway, I’d love to get together if you’re into it. Friday night?”
    The e-mail had an attachment, a photo titled “Pete and Punky” that showed Pete (once again wearing an Izod—was this his signature look?) holding his beloved Chihuahua, whom he’d named after Punky Brewster. He didn’t know I was a graphic designer, while I already knew his stupid dog was named after some stupid television show? Talk about a lopsided conversation. Well, it was my fault as much as his, I figured.
    I wrote back:
    â€œHey, Pete, good to hear from you (and Punky). Yes, I designed that card, and yes, I live in Wheaton, out the red line. It’s a beautiful place. Blockbuster Video, drive-thru McDonald’s, Jiffy Lube, a Dunkin’ Donuts. We’ve even got a shopping mall, complete with a food court, a multiplex movie theater, and a JCPenney. If you play your cards right, I’ll show you the wonders of suburbia sometime, sort of a not-so-wildlife safari. You’ll wonder why anyone wants to live in the city. Friday night sounds like a good idea. A return to Paradise?”
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    On Wednesday, the rabbi arrived alone. He tapped at the door and turned the knob without waiting for a reply. He pointed to the couch and looked at me with a shrug. But no words.
    I motioned to the couch with a nod and he came in. He shut off the light himself and closed the blinds.
    And so on Wednesday we began a new, wordless routine, without Mrs. Goldfarb playing intermediary with her chatter and smoke. Rabbi Zuckerman lay down on my couch once more. A passerby peering through my window might have thought I was a shrink. But the rabbi never spoke. And he didn’t pay me for my time.
    He did, however, inspire me. I had been a bit stymied by the Paradise ad campaign, toying with an idea for a few hours before trashing it and starting over. But Wednesday afternoon, as I watched Rabbi Zuckerman dozing, an idea struck me: the Bible.
    I had loved Bible stories as a child; I had an illustrated book that told tales from the Old Testament. When I was very little, my father would read them to me while I studied the pictures, line drawings filled in with bright watercolors. Later, when I was a little older and liked to stay up late, I’d wait until my parents went to sleep and then I’d close my bedroom door and turn on the light and read the book myself, memorizing the words.
    There was, of course, a story about Adam and Eve in that book. I could still recall the illustration: Eve (standing behind a tree to cover up her nudity) held out a red apple to Adam (seated on the ground with his legs modestly crossed), while a snake dangled from the tree branch above. I remembered the caption: “The Garden of Eden was Paradise. But Adam and Eve did not obey God’s rules.”
    Paradise.
    Maybe I would have decided on a biblical theme for the ad campaign all on my own. But with the rabbi lying there across from my desk, it seemed that there was no other possibility.
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    â€œHey, how’s your new boyfriend?” Dan asked me that evening as he sat in our living room waiting for Michelle to finish getting dressed.
    â€œVery funny,” I said. “I suppose Michelle’s told you all about him and how creepy he