#tmmmfic

At first, Midge doesn’t quite believe what she’s seeing. The man on the bench just a few steps away looks tired, to be sure, but not in the way he looked that awful, awful night at that awful, awful club, with a stool covered in court documents and a set spiraling rapidly out of control. He still looks too thin, but not as frighteningly so. His hair is endearingly rumpled, curls outlined in the midday sun, and his jacket is discarded on the bench beside him, revealed rolled-up, also-rumpled white shirtsleeves — a particular brand of casual, relaxed intimacy that takes her back to a humid stroll on a Miami boardwalk.

But it can’t be him.

She’s read the headlines. She’s heard the gossip. She knows what’s been happening. She saw it firsthand. And besides, even if he were back in the city, what are the odds he’d be out in the middle of the day, sitting on a bench in the very same park where she is?

But they’ve always had an instinct for finding each other, haven’t they? No matter how big the place, the city, or the country, they wind up in the same rooms, as if someone secretly placed magnets beneath their skin so that they’d always be drawn to each other across any distance.

But it can’t be him.

But it is him. Lenny Bruce, back in New York, slouched on a bench in Washington Square Park, and Midge has a decision to make. And yet it’s not really a choice at all, is it?

As Midge approaches, she stops in her tracks as a small, blonde girl, who looks perhaps a year or so younger than Ethan, runs up to Lenny. He looks down from the book he’s reading, says something to her, then smoothes back her ponytail with a smile and sends her back off to where she’s playing with a few other children.

Midge debates turning back now, not wanting to intrude on a part of Lenny’s life that he has clearly worked very hard to keep away from everyone, her included. But she remembers the sheepish pride in his voice when he mentioned his daughter in that long, lonely terminal, and the glisten in his eyes. She realizes, then, what she hadn’t in that moment, having been so focused on her own shame from their last conversation (and so flustered from the way his gaze had flicked up and down her body when she approached, just like it had when he’d peeled a dress from her shoulders and gazed at her in her show corset and garters before following the path of his eyes with nimble, strong hands).

He’d been trying to show her that this was different. That she was different — someone he could talk to his daughter about, not rant defensively about being creatures of the night. And she’d just… brushed it off, tried to reset them to a casual place, without even acknowledging that the ship had sailed. 

Besides, she’s still not convinced he’s real and not a figment of her exhausted imagination.

Faster than her brain can weigh the pros and cons, her feet are carrying her over to stand in front of him. He looks up from his book, and she can see the flicker of surprise cross his face. Before he can open his mouth to say anything, she’s reaching out, brushing her fingers against crisp, wrinkled cotton and feeling the solid warmth of his upper arm beneath it. 

Lenny looks at her hand on his arm, then back at her.

“New form of greeting take hold since I was last here?” he asks.

“Well, you have been gone a while, you might have missed a few trends,” she replies, letting go now that she can be sure.

“You wanna sit?” He picks up his jacket and moves it into his lap. Midge hesitates for only a moment before sitting in the empty spot beside him. She folds her hands on her lap, the better to resist the urge to touch him again.

“So. Back in New York, I see,” she says.

“For a few weeks. I got a couple meetings. Couple of gigs that haven’t been canceled yet.” He shrugs. “Nothing like you, Mrs. Maisel. I see the TV bigwigs have finally picked up on what the rest of us knew years ago.”

“That hiring me could singlehandedly send their entire costuming department into overtime?” she quips. A half-smile plays at Lenny’s lips.

“That. And, that you’re too funny to be away from the spotlight too long.” He smiles for real at her, softly, in that way that Midge has learned over the years seems to be mostly reserved for her. 

“Are we really doing this?” she asks. Lenny’s brow creases.

“Doing what, exactly?”

“This.” She waves her hands. “Small talk. How’s work, what’s new—”

“Who’s got gout?” Lenny offers, smirking behind his hand.

“Stop that.” Midge can’t help the smile that spreads across her own face, but she does her best to stay focused.

“I’ve heard about—”

“Ah, don’t believe everything you read in the papers,” Lenny quips, fumbling for a cigarette and lighting it. He offers Midge one, but she shakes her head. “Besides, you’ve got more important things to worry about.”

“Do I?” Midge asks, and there’s that look on his face again, the one that means she’s touched on something real and that big, beautiful, fast-paced brain of his is whirring like crazy to decide whether or not to brush her off. 

He sighs, running his free hand over his face with a groan.

“Fine. What you are to the NBC costume department, I am to the entire legal industry. Prosecution and defense alike,” he says.

“Not the judges, too?”

“A little out of my price range,” he quips back, but there’s an exhaustion beneath it that worries her, as he takes another drag off his cigarette. “I hate California,” he admits, more quietly. “Too much sun, too warm, everyone is just sunshiney all the time. And the sand gets in your fucking shoes and it never gets out! Never! How the fuck is that possible?”

“Let it all out, honey,” Midge says, bridging the space between them to pat his shoulder sympathetically while stifling a giggle. He looks back up at her with a glare.

“This isn’t funny. I have found sand in places I cannot mention in polite company.”

Midge looks around dramatically.

“I don’t see any polite company here, do you?”

That earns a short, bursting, “ha!” out of Lenny, and a very bad smile.

“My mistake. Only the rabble-rousers and delinquents here,” he replies. Midge realizes she still has her hand resting on his shoulder, but neither of them seem to mind much.

“Seriously, Lenny,” she says, ducking her head to force him to meet her gaze. “What’s really going on? Are things better… or worse… or?”

Lenny takes one more drag off his cigarette before stubbing it out in the ashtray by his side of the bench. He can’t quite meet her eyes.

“Some things are worse,” he admits, thinking of the growing line of court cases with his name involved. “Some things got worse, but… might be getting better.” And that’s a memory he’d rather not share with her: the aches and the sweats and the roiling stomach and the sheer force of will to not seek out the very thing that would bring an end to the misery, but would also make all of that exact same misery be in vain. 

(He would know — he’s been down this path before, and he’s always wound up right back at the starting line eventually).

Midge nods as if she understands. She doesn’t, not deeply, but she cares so much, and he adores her for it.

“And some things… some things are a little better,” he admits. His gaze pings away from his lap, and she follows his gaze to where the little blonde girl is playing, oblivious to anything except the toys and her new playmates. 

“Is that—?”

Lenny grins, and oh the proud papa look suits him, Midge thinks.

“Yeah. Hey, Kit! C’mere!” he calls out. The girl — Kit — looks up and bounds over. Up close, Midge can see the resemblance. She might be fair and blonde, and her eye color is lighter than his, but there’s a spark of lively mischief there that she knows all too well, and a lilt to the way she carries herself that echoes her father’s lanky gait.

“Kitty, I want you to meet my friend. This is Midge,” he says. “Midge, meet Kitty.” 

“Your name is pretty. And so’s your dress,” Kitty says, sticking her hand out to shake. Midge takes it with an amused smile.

“Thank you. It’s short for Miriam. My name, not my dress,” she jokes, and Kitty grins.

“My name is short for something too. Brandy Kathleen,” she declares proudly, and Midge bites back a grin as she sees Lenny squirm out of the corner of her eye.

“I think that’s very pretty too,” is all she says, solemn to this twinkly, wise little girl.

“Do we have to go now?” Kitty asks Lenny, who looks at his watch and grimaces.

“Actually … we do. Uh… where’s your sweater?” Lenny asks, looking around. Kitty points to a spot over where she was playing. “Well then, go get it.”

As Kitty bounds off, Lenny speaks quietly to Midge.

“It’s been a good day,” he says without taking his eyes off Kitty. “Lot of times, the kids aren’t allowed to play with her. They say her daddy says bad things and their parents won’t let them.” He places a humorous emphasis in the sentence, but the smile twisting his lips is far from genuine good humor. Midge’s heart just about cracks open.

“Lenny—” she starts, but Kitty’s reappearance cuts any conversation short. The little girl looks up at Midge.

“Do you want to come over for dinner? Daddy cooks!” she says enthusiastically.

Midge grins.

“Oh, does he?” she asks. “Let me guess … does he wear an apron while he does it?”

Kitty nods, beaming.

“It’s too short for him so it looks silly,” she confides, judgmental in that way only a child can be, and it takes all of Midge’s experience with her own children’s oddities to keep a straight face. “But it’s such a pretty blue.”

Midge looks up to meet Lenny’s gaze.

“A pretty blue, huh?” she says. “So that really is your favorite color, then?” 

Lenny shrugs. “It is now.”

—

Dinner is, well. It’s strange. Not in a bad way, necessarily. Lenny’s apartment in the Village is simple and lived-in. He’s no Zelda in the kitchen, but who is, and frankly, he’s the only man of her acquaintance who can acquit himself around a stove and actually turn out something not just edible, but very tasty. She would have thought the presence of his daughter would make things more awkward, but, it turns out, Kitty is just the ticket to keeping things light and pleasant, smoothing over the lingering tensions with non-stop chatter and questions.

When Kitty is finally sent to her room for the night, Lenny gets up and wanders over to the sink to do the dishes. Wordlessly, Midge gets up, finds a dishtowel, and dries. 

“What is this, Lenny?” she asks softly. “You leave — almost without saying goodbye. You get yourself into an awful mess. You push everyone away who wants to help you. And now… what, you just show up in New York like nothing has happened, like we can go back to sneak attacks and bantering at clubs?”

“Well, the latter might be a little difficult, given my status as persona non grata at so many fine establishments,” Lenny jokes, turning off the water as he hands the final plate to her. Midge sets the plate down, still wet.

“Lenny.”

The smile slides off his face as he turns to look at her, really look at her.

“Okay,” he says, giving her that tiny, tiny nod that means he’s serious. “Okay,” he repeats, sitting back down at the kitchen table and gesturing for her to do the same. “What do you want to know?”

And what doesn’t Midge want to know? She settles on the first thing that comes to mind.

“The last time I saw you … all was very much not well,” she says. Her voice is gentle, but firm, making it clear that there’s no joking out of this corner this time. Lenny ducks his head, nods again.

“I know,” he says, more quietly than Midge has ever heard him. “I never wanted you to…”

“But I did,” she replies. “And now I want to know… I don’t even know what to ask.”

Lenny fiddles with his hands for a moment, twisting the corner of the dish towel that Midge had still been holding when they sat down.

“If I’m clean?” he asks. Midge swallows, then nods. The words sound so harsh, but, she supposes, that’s appropriate for a harsh reality. After a moment, Lenny nods too.

“I am,” he offers. “Have been for… a little while. After… after that, I couldn’t… I wanted to just… disappear. I just wanted…”

“Hey.” Midge covers his hand with hers. “You don’t have to … if you don’t want.”

“No, no. It’s okay. You should… you should hear it. So you can make an… informed decision.”

“Informed decision? About what?” 

Lenny pulls his hand out from under hers and bounds up, picking up the towel to hang up.

“Nothing. I, uh. I think I just…”

“Complete sentences, please,” Midge nudges. 

“I just thought… if you wanted… and I definitely do… I thought…” He looks at her with those big, angst-filled eyes of his. “I thought… maybe I could call. This time. But I definitely misread the—”

And now Midge gets it.

“You didn’t misread,” she says, getting up to stand at eye level, or as close to it as they can get with their height difference. “You didn’t.”

“But I thought you said ... we didn’t do that,” he points out, and Midge winces.

“I shouldn’t have said that. I was just ... i was so embarrassed, Lenny. After Carnegie Hall. I thought ... I thought I could pretend nothing was different, but I was wrong, and I’m sorry. And now...”

She takes a deep breath — if he can do this, so can she.

“I was just confused because you made it sound like there was a decision that needed to be made. And if we’re talking about the same thing… that’s a decision that was made a long time ago.”

Midge Maisel has surprised Lenny time and time again. At this point, he should be surprised at being surprised. And yet, she always manages to catch him off guard with how matter-of-fact she is about caring. Lenny is used to people hiding their hearts, keeping them tucked away because caring is dangerous in this business, caring is what holds you back and gets you hurt. But Midge has always worn her caring like a badge of honor, and there’s something about it that makes him wish he could be that way too — and maybe he can, a little. If it’s her.

He realizes, a moment too late, that he’s gaping at her. She shrugs and smiles, a little self-conscious.

“When a guy gives you advice without laughing at you, bails you out of jail, takes you to a jazz club, offers to be sympathetic, talks you up to a wary crowd, and works for free just to give you one last chance… what’s a girl to do?” she asks gently. 

“You make me sound like some knight in shining armor, Midge,” Lenny mutters bitterly. “Haven’t you learned by now?”

Midge shrugs again.

“Eh. Knights are overrated. I prefer cranks in trench coats.” That earns a laugh, huffing out in a breath as Lenny tilts his head down to meet Midge’s. 

“Fuck, Midge. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” he confesses. “I’m clean now, but I could fall off the wagon at any moment. I got enough court cases to keep the entire state bar of New York — and possibly multiple other states — employed for several months. I’m still living in California—”

“Which you hate. Sun, sand, Mickey Mouse,” Midge quickly points out, and he chuckles again.

“My point is, my life is a mess right now. There is a very, very high likelihood that I have peaked and it is all downhill from here. And you? You’re on your way up.” He snaps his fingers for emphasis. “The world is at your feet, and people are taking notice in the best possible ways. I’m not about to be the schmuck who drags you down. You’ve had enough of that for a lifetime.”

Then, there are cool hands on either side of his face.

“Have you considered the possibility that maybe the reason you’re feeling so weighed down is because you’re trying to carry it all yourself? Sisyphus, wasn’t it?” she asks.

“Without the fabulous hair,” Lenny quips back, echoing the last time he let the door crack open and let Midge see just how much it cost him to be Lenny Bruce. Her lips curve upward just slightly at the corners, and he knows she’s in the same memory he is.

“I don’t know about that, I like your hair,” she teases. She runs one of her hands up to tangle in his curls, and he can’t help letting his eyes flutter shut for a moment as he leans into her touch.

“I remember something of the sort,” he can’t resist saying, and he opens his eyes just in time to see a pretty flush color her cheeks at a different sort of memory.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Midge says, drawing back just an inch or two but not letting go. “I let you in. I stop running from being scared I’ll ruin everything good in my life by being too much. And in return, you let me in. As much or as little as you can manage. Long-distance phone calls, if that’s what you want. Business cards for lawyers, if that’s as much as you’ll allow. Help with moving, if that’s what you decide. But you give me a little bit of the load. I’m strong enough to take it, now.”

He should say no. He should kiss her forehead and thank her politely and send her on her way and then crawl out of her life again. But there’s a piece of him that thinks (that knows) she’s right, logically — things don’t feel so heavy when someone else is carrying a little of the weight.

So instead, he leans down, slowly, so she has plenty of time to change her mind. But she doesn’t, and his lips settle on hers. And it feels… right. It feels like something he’d like to experience over and over, night after night, until years of arrests or years of drug use or just the general human condition catch up to him.

What she is sure of, however, is that whatever she saw in Susie’s office still has her severely freaked out, and that dominant emotion is what sends her to a club one night. When she walks in, she notes with concern the shabbiness of the chairs, the scuffed floors, the less-than-clean smells. It’s not a dive, exactly, but it’s certainly not Carnegie Hall, and it’s a little too close for comfort to a not-quite-a-memory that’s been roiling through her head since that day in Susie’s office.

She settles in, far enough from the stage that she feels confident she won’t be seen until she wants to be.

Lenny’s great (what else is new), but there’s something frenetic and almost jumpy about him that worries her. When his set is over, she has almost no time to plan her next move because there he is, appearing right in front of her.

“How’d you know i was here?” she asks, genuinely baffled this time.

He shrugs.

“I got your pigeon?” Off her glare, he amends, “I heard your laugh,” and her heart does that annoying leap it has taken to doing around him ever since he leaned against a hotel bar in miami and complimented her dick jokes.

Something in her face must give her away, though, because the smirk fades and is replaced by something more like concern.

“I can go, if you don’t want to-” He’s cut off by her grabbing his jacket cuff, an anchor to keep him there and to remind herself that he is, in fact, right there and not a ghost or a memory that will slip through her fingers at any second.

He studies her again.

“Midge? Everything okay?” And everything is very much, not okay, and she suddenly finds herself at a loss for words. She’s only able to shake her head. Instantly, her hand is enveloped in his, and he’s steering her out of the club and into a quiet alley, where the bite of the night air helps her shake off the cloud of terror that’s been following her around.

She looks at him.

“If I tell you something, promise me you won’t think I’m crazy,” she says. The two of them have always had that ability to be on each other’s wavelengths - it’s what’s made them so good at trading banter and building on each other’s jokes, but it’s also what has allowed them to both realize when there’s nothing to laugh at. And, thank god, Lenny seems to understand that this is one of those times, and simply nods, leaning back against the brick wall without taking his eyes off of her.

Midge takes a deep breath, then lets it out.

As the story flows out of her, she watches him closely. To his credit, he does little to give his reactions away, but somewhere along the line, she learned to read him as well as he can read her. She notes the twitch of humor in the corner of his mouth when she rattles off the famous men she married and divorced (and jilted). She sees his jaw clench just a little when she admits how she and Joel could never quite fucking let go of the past. She sees his eyes soften in sympathy when she chokes up as she narrates what happened with her kids, and worst of all, with Susie.

Then her vision goes dark as she finds her face pressed into dark fabric, his arms wrapping around her and his hand gently stroking her hair as she cries.

“And now you probably think I’m completely fucking crazy, and I’m just...” she loses the end of her sentence in another sob, and Lenny just chuckles softly.

“Sweetheart,” he says, the term of endearment tripping off his tongue so naturally, it’s as if he’s been saying it forever, “I already knew you were a little crazy. The best people all are.”

And that, at least, gets a wet giggle out of her, and she pulls back, trying in vain to restore some sense of dignity.

“At the risk of sounding self-serving, uh...” Lenny flounders. “Can I inquire as to where...”

Midge looks up to meet his eyes, and his mouth snaps shut.

“Ah. I see,” he says. “I suppose that’s not surprising. Can I ask-”

“August. ‘66.” she says, and they’re quiet for a minute. “I don’t meant to-”

“To... what?” he asks. She shrugs.

“I... I heard what you said. At Carnegie Hall. I don’t want you to think I pity you, or I’m trying to fix you, I don’t want you to-”

“You don’t want me to... what?”

“I don’t want you to... You know. Feel pressured to do something, or not do something, because some crazy lady told you that a magician gave her a vision of the future.”

Lenny rubs a hand over his face, and Midge is suddenly struck by how tired he looks.

“Well, it’s a moot point anyway,” he says. “Because I already did something - or decided not to do something for a change - because some very funny lady looked very sad and that just about broke what’s left of this shriveled organ I call a heart.”

She looks up at him.

“Do not mother me,” he says in warning. “I meant what I said. I don’t want your pity. Fix you, and let me worry about me while I do this.”

“I’m always going to worry about you, haven’t you figured that out by now?” Midge replies instantly, and despite the lightness of tone, there’s a truth there that earns a tired but real smile from him.

“So does this mean you believe me?” she asks. He shrugs.

“The way I see it, it doesn’t matter if Susie’s little weirdo actually did magic or if it all was in your head. You got a glimpse-”

“More than a fucking glimpse,” she mutters.

“-A look,” he amends, “Of a future you didn’t like very much. Right?”

Midge nods.

“Okay then. So then, do things differently.”

“You make it sound so easy,” she says, a little petulance in her voice that makes Lenny grin.

“You seem very stressed right now, so I won’t make the ‘easy’ joke that just sprung to mind,” he quips. It’s Midge’s turn to shrug.

“I wouldn’t mind. I probably thought of the same one.”

Lenny smiles at her.

“Drinks?” he asks. “That’s one vice they’ll have to pry from my cold dead hands.” Off Midge’s look, his face falls. “Sorry, I didn’t-”

“Drinks would be nice,” she says, and as they walk, she slips an arm through his.

postscript: one week later

"Midge! What can i do for you?” Gordon asks as Midge flounces into his office.

“So, here’s the deal, Gordon, and I want to make this very clear,” she says, sitting neatly on the chair across from his desk. “I am never, ever, under any circumstances, in this life or any other, going to sleep with you. I don’t care what arrangement you and Hedy have. But it is never going to involve me.”

Gordon’s mouth drops open.

“We’ve got two options, now.” She leans forward. “One: you get over your habit of thinking with your dick, realize that I’m actually really fucking funny, and let me do what I’m good at. Or, two - I walk right out that door and I don’t come back, and the next time you see me will be sending the ratings skyrocketing for Jack -”

“Don’t say it,” he grits. Midge smiles beatifically.

It’s a moment of weakness, he knows. He should let her go and forget about him, forget about the years of flirting, forget about what happened in that very blue room. As long as she doesn’t forget what he told her on that big, famous stage, that can be enough.

But he is tired. So, so tired, and when he’s tired, he makes decisions he usually wouldn’t. And instead of making the bad decision he usually does in those circumstances, he picks up the phone and dials a different number instead.

When the phone answers, though, it’s not Midge who answers, nor is it her family’s deeply terrifying maid. It’s Abe. The professor. Miss December. Midge’s father.

“Hello?” Abe repeats a third time. “You know, if this is a prank call, it’s not a very good one. You should really work on coming up with something better than-”

“Hello, uh, Mr. Weissman. It’s, ah. This is Lenny. Midge’s … Midge’s friend.”

“I see,” Abe says. “And are you fully in your right mind, this time?”

“Well, I certainly think so, but there’s a whole host of politicians, lawyers, and color commentators who seem to think otherwise, so if you’re looking for a consensus—,” he begins to quip on instinct before realizing this probably isn’t the right time. Lenny groans and runs a hand over his face, noting as he does that he really should probably shave at some point.

“You were much funnier the first time we met,” Abe comments, but it sounds more like an observation than an insult.

“Is Midge there?” Lenny asks. “I was hoping to talk to her, I wanted to see if—”

“She’s not feeling well,” Abe replies, and Lenny feels a pit drop in his stomach at the worry in the other man’s tone. “She came home the other night soaked and freezing, that night she went to see your show. Frostbite and hypothermia and—”

“Is she okay?” Lenny demands, hearing a bit of Abe’s franticness in his own voice now.

“Susie’s with her now.”

Lenny isn’t sure what compels him to say the next thing that comes out of his mouth. Guilt, maybe, or a sense of obligation? Those are the safe ones to think about, because if those aren’t the emotions driving him right now, he’s in much bigger trouble.

“Can I come by?”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, as if Abe is really pondering the answer.

“You know,” he finally says, “I think that might do her some good.”

So that’s how Lenny finds himself standing in the foyer of a vaguely familiar, extremely stylish Upper West Side apartment, coat awkwardly draped over his arm until Abe insists on taking it and hanging it up.

Rose walks down the hall and, though she looks less than thrilled to see Lenny, she’s also not outright hostile, and that is win enough for him at the moment.

“Susie’s with her still, but if you’d like to go in… I should warn you, though,” Rose adds, “She hasn’t been making much sense, so I’m not sure how much good it will do.”

Lenny nods, trying to hide the worry rising up in his throat, and follows Rose’s directions down the hall. The overwhelming feelings of being in her bedroom are quickly replaced by the absolute shock of seeing her bundled up, makeup-free and head wrapped, and muttering incoherently to a very surprised-looking Susie.

“The hell are you doing here?”

“Yes, hello to you too, Susie,” he responds. “Is she—” he gestures at Midge.

“She’s gonna be fine. Frostbite and, apparently, a little accompanying delirium. She’ll be fine in a couple of days,” Susie says. “She’s been saying some weird shit though. Weirder than normal, I mean. Did you know she slept with Tony fucking Bennett?”

“I’m sorry, she what now?”

Susie shrugs.

“I dunno. She keeps muttering something about sleeping with some guy … maybe she didn’t say Tony Bennett? Complete sentences seem to be beyond her at the moment.”

Lenny chokes at that, then tries—mostly unsuccessfully—to cover it with a cough.

“I am positive she did not sleep with Tony Bennett. Or even speak to the man, for that matter,” he can’t help adding, and from the look that briefly passes over Susie’s face just then, he knows the two of them share an opinion for once.

“Thanks for trying that, by the way. She said it was you who put her up for it, and even if she was too fucking up her own ass to take it… well. Thanks,” Susie says. “But then, I don’t get it. She kept repeating, ‘I slept with him, I slept with him,’ and something about Tony Bennett. So if it wasn’t him then who did she sleep—”

Susie stops short. Lenny’s poker face is good, but it’s not so good as to keep a completely straight, un-flushed face while standing in Midge’s bedroom and talking about who she’s slept with recently.

“Oh no. Do not tell me—”

“Miss Susie!” Zelda bustles into the room. “Miss Dinah is on the phone for you, she says it’s urgent.”

Susie keeps her narrowed eyes on Lenny even as she moves to follow Zelda out the door.

“You and me, pal, we’re going to have a very interesting conversation that I do not want to have when I get back,” she warns. 

“Waiting on pins and needles,” he says dryly as he takes Susie’s seat next to Midge’s bed.

-----

It takes him a few minutes to psyche himself up enough to reach out and take her hand. When  he does, he almost drops it again, the reminder of her thumb tracing circles in a mutually drowsy, mutually satisfied haze almost too much for his fragile nerves and one-week-without-drugs mind to bear. For a moment, he wishes more than anything that he’d taken something to calm himself before coming here, but then he remembers that look on her face in his bathroom, and he tries to convince himself that if he can do this without the assistance of a little vial, maybe he can manage the other hard things, too.

Then he hears a thin but clear voice emerge from the covers, turned away from him.

“Susie, it was so cold,” Midge complains. “Snow gets everywhere. And now… frost crotch,” she says, more clearly. “I’ve got frost crotch.”

Lenny can’t help it. He begins to laugh, muffled at first, shoulders shaking, then a full-throated “ha!”

Midge’s eyes fly wide open and she rolls over, mouth dropping as she takes in the sight.

“You’re not Susie,” is the only thing she can think to say.

“Now, why does that sound familiar?” he quips. She touches the wrap on her head self-consciously, then her sweater, and then her gaze falls to where their hands are currently joined. 

“Mrs. Maisel,” Lenny says softly, but with a smirk on his lips, “you are a mess right now. And I say this as something of an expert on being a mess,” he adds.

Midge struggles to push herself into a sitting position, so Lenny stands and gently helps her get propped up before settling back at her side.

“So,” he says.

“So,” she echoes. “What are you doing here, anyway? Did Susie call you?”

“No, actually, uh—” He breaks off, with a nervous chuckle. “I… called you. Or, tried to.”

“Why? I mean—”

Lenny goes through some complicated emotions at that. A little rejected, perhaps, or just disappointed? Or relieved? Or … what, exactly? So, he settles on honesty.

“Because I was thinking about you,” he says simply. 

When Midge looks at him in surprise, breathing out an, “oh,” his heart breaks a little bit—not for himself, this time, but for her. He wonders, briefly, how often anyone calls Midge just because they’re thinking of her, not because they need or want something from her.

There’s silence in the room for a minute, the only noises the faint sounds of her family and Susie’s conversations down the hall.

“Lenny?” she whispers.

“Hm?”

“I’m not gonna blow it,” Midge says. Her voice is still thin and tired, but there’s a familiar determination there that reassures him. 

“I know,” he says. 

“I’m sorry,” she adds. “You did so much for me, you always do so much for me, even when I don’t deserve it, and I just… threw it away. Why do I always do that?”

“If I had a fucking answer to that, we’d both be a lot better off,” Lenny says, earning a small smile out of her. “But you always come back around. You always pick up the pieces.”

“Susie does,” Midge says, tearing up. “I gotta apologize to her. I have to apologize so much.”

“You will. And she’ll forgive you. And you’ll get more chances,” he assures her.

“But what if I don’t?” she asks. “What if I finally just run out of chances? Then what?”

Lenny shrugs.

“If someone like me is still getting chances, I think you’ll be just fine,” he says. He aims for lightness, but a crack in his voice betrays him. 

“Speaking of which… I should probably tell you that I am headed out of town for a little while. I got some gigs in California. Even rented a house. My … my kid’s gonna stay with me,” he says, and he hates the way her face falls, and yet he loves that he’s one of the people allowed to see her unfiltered reactions without pretense.

“Your kid, huh?” she says, smiling a little despite herself, and he can’t help grinning too. “Lucky girl.” 

And there it is again, Midge just casually uncovering his rawest nerves. No one has ever said that Kitty is “lucky” to have him — just the opposite, in fact. So all he can choke out in the moment is a cracked, “Yes.”

“And now look at you. A man with a lease,” Midge says, summoning a sunny smile.

Lenny shrugs.

“Happens to the best of us.”

There’s a pause before Midge speaks again.

“It’s not… it’s not because you’re still mad at me?”

“What? Why would you think—”

“Because that’s what people do. They get mad, and then they go away,” she says, and Lenny feels that familiar ache again.

He doesn’t realize that he’s been silent until Midge speaks again.

“This is usually the part where the other person says something comforting, you know,” she teases.

He barks out a laugh and rubs his eyes.

“I, uh,” he flounders, before deciding, fuck it, he’s been going with honesty so far, why not the whole enchilada. “I’m just trying to decide if I try to kiss you, if you’ll recoil in horror or not,” he half-jokes.

“Me recoil? What about you? All this,” she says, gesturing at the head wrap, hot water bottle, and the distinct lack of makeup on her face, “Doesn’t exactly say sexy.”

“I would beg to disagree,” Lenny says, scooting a little closer with a smile playing on his lips. Midge mimics the movement, closing more inches between them until their gazes are locked and their lips are nearly touching, but not quite.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a very strange man?” Midge whispers, so close he can feel the exhale of her breath.

“I’ve been called so much worse.” Then Lenny closes what’s left of the gap and kisses her. It’s not burning and fierce, how it was in his bed in that blue room. It’s tender, maybe a little tentative, maybe a little reassuring, like it was that very first time he set his lips to hers. A promise that, no, that’s not a mistake. Yes, that’s what we’ve been waiting for.

“Do they have that in California?” she teases as she pulls back. Lenny smirks.

“I’m sure they have something of the sort,” he jokes. Then he lets his smile soften as he touches her cheek. “But nothing quite like that.”

“You sure?” she asks, and Lenny can hear the real question beneath the levity.

“There’s no one like you. I’m sure of that,” he says. “Anyway, I should be asking you if you’re sure.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Midge asks, genuinely confused.

“I’m not exactly… Upper West Side material, here,” he says. He gets up and paces, wishing for a cigarette to keep his hands occupied. “The arrests keep coming. The legal bills… well, use your imagination. I’m barely making ends meet, the list of cities I can’t set foot in is growing, and they’re gonna find a way to make an example of me sooner or later. And then there’s the—”

He stops.

“The what? The… bag?” Midge nudges. He shrugs. Midge’s face creases. “You weren’t… when we… were you?”

“No!” he hastens to assure her. “No. I swear. I wanted to be clear-headed for Carnegie Hall, so I didn’t… for a few days before. I just had… just in case…”

The warmth of a few moments before is vanishing, replaced by something close to shame. 

“Come here,” Midge commands. He looks at her from across the room, where his pacing has taken him.

“Why?”

“Just do it. I’m the invalid, you have to do what I say,” she says matter-of-factly. He draws closer to her again, perching on the edge of the bed. He’s surprised when her cool, smooth hand runs along his stubbled cheek.

“And what did you do with… just in case?” she asks softly. She’s taking a risk, she knows, asking a question she’s not sure she wants the answer to. But Lenny leans his cheek into her hand and whispers, “Threw it away. After I got back from Wo Hop.”

“Okay then,” she says.

“No, not okay,” Lenny argues, not able to pull away but not able to let her think it’s that easy. “You don’t get it, Midge. It was fine then. I’m good now. But in a few days? Or weeks? It’s not a light switch you can just turn on and off!” He hates telling her about this, hates making her know these things about him, but he needs her to understand.

“But you want to?” In some ways, it’s such a simple question. But it’s not one he’s thought of in such stark terms before. He wants to not be in pain. He wants to be able to work without fear. He wants to face his daughter without shame. He wants to be … maybe not the kind of man who wears sweaters and smokes pipes and accompanies a wife and kids to temple on the regular, but at least the kind of man who doesn’t elicit murmurs of what does she see in him?

And, yes. He’d like to do all of that without the aid of needles and vials. It drains his money when he can’t afford to lose a cent. It feels good, until it doesn’t, but he always forgets that part until the next time. And it really, really hurts because, ironically, he’s terribly clumsy at the physical parts of his addiction. So…

“Yeah,” he whispers hoarsely. “When you put it like that… yeah. Besides,” he adds, trying to lighten the mood, “my lawyers will be thrilled. One less thing I can get hooked for.”

“They sound like some pretty good lawyers,” Midge quips back. He shrugs, again.

“They’re all right. Wish I had better, but they try to keep me out of prison, so I suppose that’s all I can ask for. But if things keep up this way I may just start trying to do it myself, I dunno.”

Midge perks up in that way she does when she’s figured out how to fix something.

“Oh! You should talk to Michael Kessler!”

Lenny’s heard the name, vaguely. He thinks he might have met the man somewhere along the line — all the lawyers start to blend together at some point.

“And you know this because?”

“Because,” Midge says, “one day, oh, about two years ago, I found myself entangled in the legal system for the first time, and someone told me I should get a lawyer, so I did.”

“Oh, and you always do what someone tells you?” he drawls.

“Certain someones,” Midge fires back, and somehow it’s a flirtation and a confession all at once. “Anyway. Get Kessler. He’s good. Loves free speech arguments. Loves arguments, period, you’ll get along great.” She casts her gaze around her room before giving up. “His card is here… somewhere. Just ask my father before you leave.”

Lenny’s hand falls across his face, covering his mouth as he stares at her.

“Your… father. Knows… You know, I’m starting to think your family is much more interesting than one might think from the outside.”

“One of our best qualities,” Midge says. Her gaze slides behind Lenny, and he turns to see Susie standing there, glowering but also clearly relieved to see Midge upright.

“I think that’s my cue,” Lenny states, sliding off the bed. 

“When do you leave?” Midge asks. He grimaces.

“A few more days. I’ll come by before then, I promise,” he adds. He hesitates, then quickly leans down to brush a quick peck on her lips. “See ya, Midge. Hope the frostbite works itself out soon!” He smirks as he pulls back. “Would you be angry if that went in my act?”

“Yes. Because it’s going in mine,” Midge deadpans back. He raises a playful eyebrow.

“May the best joke win?”

“You’re on, mister.” She gives his hand one more squeeze, then lets go. Lenny sidles past Susie with a tight, almost smile, which she almost returns.

Lenny hears their voices floating down the hall as he makes his way back to the foyer. When he sees Abe meandering around, he decides, what the hell, add one more layer of strange to this whole day.

“Mr. Weissman?”

Abe stops pacing and looks at him.

“Abe is fine. I think after being arrested together, we can use first names, don’t you think?”

“Sure. Uh. Abe. Midge mentioned you might have a way to get in touch with someone she thinks I should talk to. A Michael Kessler?”

Abe’s eyes brighten, and what is it with Weissmans getting so excited about problem solving?

"You should meet my son. He's a data analyst. And a spook," Abe says casually as he scribbles on a notepad, and Lenny flushes a little at the realization he spoke aloud. His brain only rewinds to the second half of that statement just in time for Abe to hand him the tidily folded piece of paper.

“I’m sorry, did you say…”

“Michael is wonderful. Always raring for a good fight. I think he’ll be good for you.” Abe pats him collegially on the shoulder as he strides away. Lenny watches him go, then huffs a laugh as he shrugs on his coat, only to turn around and see the maid, Zelda, watching him.

“Oh, hey, thanks, by the way. For pressing my jacket, that one time,” he offers. She stares at him a moment longer, giving nothing away on her expression. “Right. Okay then.”

“Miss Dinah did not call.”

He turns back around.

“I’m sorry… what?”

“Miss Dinah. She did not call for Miss Susie. I lied.” 

Lenny takes a step closer to this strange, pink-clad woman.

“And… you did that because?”

“Because Miss Miriam likes you. She brought you home. She put you in her child’s bed. She was very sad when you left with your pants so very, very wrinkled. She said your name in her sleep, when I went to bring her another blanket. I thought you should talk. Without Miss Susie,” she adds, and Lenny grins.

“Well, uh. Thanks, Zelda. For everything.” 

-----

Lenny does meet Michael Kessler, and likes the man enormously right off the bat. There’s no bullshit, but plenty of bullish stubbornness and willingness to fight (and willingness to say that Lenny’s previous lawyers are not nearly experienced enough in First Amendment stuff nor nearly as ideologically invested to do the kind of work he needs). 

Lenny does find himself feeling very unwell, as his body clamors for the substances it’s grown accustomed to. He thanks whatever or whoever is looking out for him that it only hits after his return from the Upper West Side. He also knows these couple of especially miserable days won’t be the last time his body and brain turn on him, and that, much like his court dates, is something he is not looking forward to.

Lenny does jet off to California, too, with the promise to call often — and he does, in fact, keep his word. 

He also keeps his word about putting Midge’s little problem into his act, or, at least, a variation on the idea. A bit about the progression from having sex to having frozen genitals plays great for the California crowds who have never seen temperatures dip below the 30s. He can’t help grinning a little wider at the reaction to the phrase frost crotch, watching as the most West Coast couple he’s ever seen practically double over laughing at the table nearest the stage.

He can’t wait to tell Midge.

-----

“So a couple of weeks ago, I experienced something brand-new. Something new is fun, right? Like, a birthday present, or a new dress, or finishing first in bed,” Midge jokes, earning hoots and hollers from the crowd at the Wolford. “But I now know firsthand that something new isn’t always fun. Because, ladies and gentlemen, that something new was a delightful little experience I have dubbed frost crotch.”

There’s another round of shocked gasps and giggles as she describes the situation. Then, for the finishing touch, her parting shot:

“And you know, I just might be the first woman in history to have unplanned sex and wake up with my nether regions frozen instead of on fire!”

She grins out at the audience, full of laughs and whistles. Off to one side, there’s a young couple, dressed a little impractically, who look a little stunned. The woman whispers something to her companion, and they both stare at Midge like they’ve just cracked a code. 

-----

When Midge stops by the Button Club to drop off a jacket Ethan left behind, she’s startled when Archie tries to shoo her out quickly.

“Trust me, Midge, you don’t wanna—”

“Midge? Midge is here?” Joel calls, and Archie shuts his eyes like a headache has just begun (or returned). 

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he mutters to Midge’s back as she heads deeper into the club.

“Joel? Something wrong?” she asks, drawing up short when she sees the petulant scowl on his face. It’s an expression she knows intimately, and not one that ever bodes well for her mood the rest of the day.

“Anything you wanna tell me, Midge?” he demands. Midge looks at him, baffled.

“I’m assuming that’s rhetorical, so I’m gonna need you to be a little more specific if you want to fight,” she says. Joel chuckles.

“Yeah, really funny. Funny, funny lady. On all those stages. I wonder what they’d say if they knew what you did to get there, though?”

Now Midge is both confused and insulted.

“What the fuck are you talking about, Joel? If you have something to say, spit it out, otherwise I have to get to work.”

Joel stares at her for a long moment, then smiles without any humor in it.

“Funny thing, this club of mine. I hear people talk about all sorts of things. Where they’ve been, where they’re headed afterwards. What acts they like, what they’ve seen before.”

There was a time when Midge might have humored Joel through his lengthy setup. But she’s got a job to get to, a mercurial boss to please, and some hard-to-impress coworkers to charm, and her patience for Joel’s self-absorption has worn thin.

“Look, I really do have to get to work, so can we speed this up a little?” It earns her a glare, but Joel does jump to the point.

“So last night, I hear this couple talking about how they saw your act. How you made some joke about…” And here, Joel looks a little uncomfortable. “About… frostbite, and….”

“So, what, you’re mad that I talked about my crotch on stage? You’ve seen my act, you can’t possibly be embarrassed about that anymore.”

“No, that’s not…” Joel shakes his head with another tight grin. “It’s… They were also talking about how they’re in from out of town. California, in fact. And how they saw another comic out there, just a couple of days ago, doing a bit about frost crotch. And they were trying to figure out how likely it is that two people on opposite coasts could make jokes about the same, extremely specific thing, just days apart, in venues where there’s no way they could have heard and copied each other. And you know what conclusion they came to?”

“What?”

“That these two comics… both talking about having sex and getting hypothermia… must be talking about the exact same fucking night.”

Midge is, for once, speechless, which only seems to infuriate Joel more.

“So it’s true, then? No witty comeback? No jokey denial?” he demands. “You slept with Lenny fucking Bruce?”

Midge shrugs.

“Yeah,” she says simply. Joel scowls even further, pacing the floor.

“I cannot fucking believe this. My wi— my ex-wife, the mother of my children, off having one-night stands with…”

“Well—” Midge stops herself.

“Well, what?” Joel snaps. “What was that sentence going to be?” Midge hesitates.

“I just… I’m not sure if it will make things better or worse… to tell you that it’s not a one-night stand.”

Joel’s mouth drops. 

“It… what?”

“It’s not a one-night stand. We’re… something. I don’t know. But… it’s not a one-night stand. I don’t think it ever could have been. So. Now you know. And now I have to go.”

“Was it to get back at me?” 

Joel’s question stops Midge in her tracks. She turns back around to look at him, but she doesn’t walk any closer. The urge to pat his shoulder, or squeeze his hand to soften the blow, vanished somewhere between blaming her for Mei’s choices and calling her a whore by implication just now.

“No, Joel,” she says simply. “I think… it was a long time coming, if you must know.”

“Really? It wasn’t because you knew how much I admired him? Not even a little bit of revenge?” he presses. And that smug certainty that everything in her life still revolves around him finally pushes Midge over the edge.

“No, I guarantee you, Joel. There is absolutely no part of me that was thinking about you, or anyone or anything else, even a tiny bit, while I was in Lenny’s bed.”

Midge turns on her heel, leaving Joel to gawp after her.

“Uh, Midge?” Archie says tentatively as she sweeps by him in the doorway. 

“Yeah, Archie?”

“Uh, Joel probably didn’t say, because he’s… anyway. Uh, I think the woman, the one from California? I think I heard her say something about writing a gossip column, so you might want to…”

Midge grimaces, then pats Archie on the shoulder.

“Thanks, Archie. I appreciate it. Tell Imogene I’ll call her tomorrow!”

She makes a schedule to remind herself to spend a certain amount of time each day (or at least every other day) with each of the kids. It goes against everything in her nature not to turn that into a bit for her act, too, but if “Mrs. X at the Gaslight” could still come back to haunt her, then the last thing she needs is some greasy-haired dweeb recording her confessions of terrible motherhood just enough to have them pop up when Ethan and Esther are old enough to be permanently scarred by their mother joking about forcing herself to spend time with them. She’s not even forcing herself to spend time with them, just to schedule when that time is, but she suspects that’s not a distinction that will play well with audiences or with the kids. So, out of the act it goes, against Susie’s objections.

The family stuff, ironically enough, is easier than some of the professional. She’s still laboring away at Gordon’s show, and while it’s better than her first go-round, filled with unwanted flirting from the boss and constant opposition from coworkers, it’s still not what she wants to be doing. She knows, in the back of her mind, how future-her solved the “writers can’t be on the show” problem, but she’s not ready to take that leap or burn those bridges just yet. 

Besides, there’s a bigger problem at hand: namely, Susie having a rare lapse in street smarts and getting herself and Midge entangled with the mob. That, again, is not something that Midge wants to relive the way it was in Alfie’s version of the future, so she’s stuck with trash-can musicals once again. 

And now, she’s stuck in Chicago, doing a couple of sets at a club owned by a “friend” of Frank and Nicky’s, whose headliner pulled out at the last minute for reasons not clearly explained. It’s a weekend, and she’s got nothing to do on Saturday afternoon but explore a new city and try to figure out how to extract herself from this mess. Susie doesn’t seem to have seen as much in her vision as Midge did, or if she did, she’s keeping it secret even from Midge, and all she’ll say is that she’s “working on it.”

When she decides to indulge in a hearty sandwich for lunch, Midge picks a deli at random, knowing deep down that it’ll probably be disappointing by her standards, but hoping it will be at least passable. The bigger surprise is when the woman seated on the stool next to her turns her head and Midge realizes that she knows her, at the exact same time the other woman realizes the same thing.

“Hi,” Mei says.

“Hi,” Midge answers.

“What are you doing here?” Mei winces. “Sorry, that came out a lot ruder than I thought. I just meant—”

“Didn’t expect to see me here?” When Mei shrugs in agreement, Midge nods. “You and me both.”

Then Midge looks at Mei — really looks at her, and a thought occurs to her: a memory of a months-ago conversation with Frank and Nicky, and an allusion that Mei’s family is frightening enough to even scare off hardened mob goons.

It’s probably a bad idea. It’s almost certainly a bad idea. But, fight fire with fire, as they say, right?

“Hey,” Midge begins. “I know I have… absolutely no right to ask you this. Or ask you anything, really. But, honestly, I’m desperate.”

“I’m flattered,” Mei says dryly, and not for the first time, Midge gets the sense that, in some other life, she and Mei could have gotten along pretty well.

“My manager, she doesn’t usually get things wrong, but when she does, boy do things go wrong,” Midge continues. “Which circles back to your first question.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Exactly,” Midge says. She lowers her voice slightly, aware of the public space they’re in. “Couple of years ago, Susie made some … friends, let’s say. And now business is picking up and they’ve turned out to be less of friends and more of…”

“Ah. That kind of friend,” Mei says delicately. Midge presses her lips together tightly and nods.

“So here I am, in Chicago, using up the only free time I’ll have all month, doing sets for their friend’s club. I had to emcee a musical about municipal waste! There’s no end to it. They said they own us,” Midge hisses. “And now Joel’s sniffing around, and knowing him he’ll try to do something stupid out of some misplaced savior complex about me and the kids, and then—”

She stops and looks back at Mei.

“Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to bring up—”

“It’s okay.” Mei shrugs it off. “I mean, you’re not wrong.”

“Look. I know we’re not friends, not in any definition of the word. But I may have heard … things. About the kinds of circles your family may or may not run in, and the kinds of people who are scared of them.” 

A faint grin appears on Mei’s lips. 

“And you were hoping, what, that I could call in the cavalry and save all of you from your own naivete and stupidity?” Mei asks, blunt as can be.

“Wow, they definitely haven’t gotten to the ‘bedside manner’ portion of med school, have they?” Midge cracks. 

“It’s overrated,” Mei parries back, and there’s that dry, dry humor again that makes Midge wish things had gone differently. “Okay,” she says, getting off her stool and putting a few bills by her plate to pay.

“Okay?” Midge echoes back, startled at the abrupt shift. Mei picks up her purse from the counter, then turns back to Midge.

“Your manager — Susie, you said?”

“Yeah. Susie Myerson.”

“Well. You tell Susie to keep an ear out. And if some guy shows up to deliver Chinese food but without the food, you tell her she should invite him in. Good luck with your shows, Midge.”

Mei is already almost out the door when Midge gets with the program enough to hurry after her, tossing her own money on the counter and nearly losing a shoe on the way out.

“Mei!” she calls out, hurrying after her on the sidewalk. Mei stops and turns around. When Midge reaches her, the only thing that falls out of her mouth is, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would you do this for me? After everything that happened — with Joel, and with everything else — you’re just going to … help me? Without even asking for a favor or something in return?”

Mei’s eyes narrow.

“First of all, I don’t do that favor bullshit. My family might, but in case you haven’t noticed, I’m here by myself, on my own merit, no favors called in. Draw your own conclusions.”

“I’m sorry, I know you — I didn’t mean —”

“Second. You’re right that Joel is exactly the type of man who would puff himself up and try to fix things and get himself into trouble instead. And as … as badly as things ended, the image of how that could turn out isn’t one that I’m interested in seeing. And it’s not one that your kids deserve.”

Mei takes a deep breath and seems to relax a little as she looks squarely into Midge’s gaze.

“And third? I sort of owe you, anyway.”

“Me? What did I do?” Midge asks, trying to sort through her limited interactions with Mei to figure out when she’s ever done something to actually help instead of make things worse. Mei smiles, and it’s an actual smile, not a sarcastic or ironic one.

“That night, in the hospital, while we were waiting for news about Moishe, and you started in with all the questions about co-parenting and managing the kids’ schedules and me and Joel living together, and all of that.”

“I thought I scared you off with that. Joel thinks I scared you off with that,” Midge can’t help adding. Mei lets out a short huff of laughter at that.

“Of course he does. And I guess from his perspective, that’s what happened. But from mine, it’s that you showed me, clear as day, what that life would look like. What my life would have looked like, if I’d stayed and gone through with… with all the plans. I don’t know, it felt like—”

“A glimpse of a future you realized wasn’t for you?” Midge asks, a little wry. 

“Yeah. Yeah, exactly,” Mei says softly. Midge smiles.

“I know what you mean.” They’re quiet for a moment, until Mei shakes herself out of it.

“Remember. Susie. Chinese food. Don’t forget.”

“Got it. Thanks, Mei. And… good luck. I think you’re going to be a really, really great doctor.”

Mei grins.

“You bet your ass I am.”

Mei’s good to her word. A week later, Dinah ushers a skinny, bespectacled man in a suit into Susie’s office. Midge never finds out what, exactly, was in the briefcase he brought over, nor will Susie tell her what was said during her conversation with Frank and Nicky. 

“Better that you don’t know the details,” Susie says ominously.

It's lonely here without you.

She can't help thinking it. She hasn't been able to stop thinking it since that bittersweet, all-too-brief conversation at the airport. She hadn't realized, before, that it would be lonely without him around, without even the possibility of running into him at some club or bar or street corner, as if by some magic from the realm of the meant-to-be. It's a lot harder for a sneak attack to happen when it would require a transcontinental flight.

A faint curse from the opposite seat snaps Midge out of her reverie. She looks up to see Alfie fiddling with something - a mirror, maybe, or a deck of cards?

"Everything okay there, Alfie?" she asks. He looks up, seemingly surprised to see her there.

"I just... this trick... why won't it... See, I'm supposed to move my hands like this, and then—"

Alfie fumbles his prop, and Midge's world tilts on its axis.

She meets with Susie, then heads home. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, not now, nor when she gets up the next morning, or the days or months after that.

She goes to work, and works at Gordon's show day after day, making friends and gaining fame along the way, even while she keeps up with her own standup.

She supports Joel with Mei gone. She gets on a boat. She falls off a boat. She fights with Susie. She makes up with Susie. She fights with her parents. She makes up with her parents. She kisses a man. She runs away from a man.

She gets older.

She plays Carnegie Hall. She has her own show. She gets the worst news she's ever heard and cries until she doesn't think she can ever cry again. She does a major photoshoot in the ugliest outfit she's ever seen.

She gets older.

She's on TV. She's on stages across the country and around the world. She's in California and briefly thinks of him. She's everywhere. She's at the Friar's Club. She's got a mansion. She's getting interviewed.

She gets older.

An office slams into view around her.

"Alfie, what the fuck was that?!" Susie shouts, banging around the corner and looking like... well, like Midge probably looks about now. Midge doesn't quite hear what Alfie says; her own heartbeat pounding in her ears is the only thing she hears. She can't help it, touching her face (still smooth), her hair (still bouncy), her clothes (still gorgeous) to check that decades haven't actually passed since she was last sitting there, that everything is right.

Everything isn't right, though.

"I gotta go," she hears herself saying, pushing herself up out of her seat and towards the door. Before she gets all the way out, she darts back and plants a kiss on Alfie's cheek.

"What was that for?" he asks, a little more dazed than usual.

"I think you know," she says. She looks at Susie, who gives her a single, sharp nod. Alfie thinks for a moment, then offers his strange, sweet smile.

"It wasn't on purpose," he adds.

"Hey."

"Hi."

It's awkward for a minute, especially since neither of them seems particularly inclined to small talk. As their food arrives at the same time, Mei realizes that the silence, itself, is what's so unusual. She hasn't been around Midge much, but the one thing she does know is that this is a woman who rarely shuts up.

"How're you doing, anyway?" Midge asks, and despite it all, Mei senses that she really is genuine.

"Been better, been worse," Mei shrugs. "What about you?"

"Been better, been worse," Midge echoes with an ironic half-smile.

Mei gnaws at her sandwich as silence falls again. Then, she's clearly spent too much time around Maisels the last few weeks because what comes spilling out next is very much not her.

"I'm pregnant; he's not Chinese, I'm not Jewish, and we're not married. I'm not sure if his parents or mine will be more terrifying when they find out the details. All at the exact same time I'm applying for residencies. And there is absolutely no one I can say any of that to. And I'm hungry all the time!"

She finally gets a grip and forces her mouth closed.

"I'm sorry, I-"

Her apology is cut off by a side plate of fries sliding in front of her. She looks up, and Midge just shrugs, then takes a fry for herself.

"I slept with one of my best friends," she begins. "I also have been sabotaging my own career, which he chewed me out for and then fucked off to the opposite side of the country. No one knows. And I think I might... kind of be in lo-"

She stops, then shrugs.

"Anyway. Now you and I both have something on each other. Keep things balanced. Tidy. Safe."

"Is that really what you think?" Mei asks. Midge shrugs again.

"It's how it is."

For a moment, Mei feels overwhelming sadness for the woman in front of her. She's spent so long trying to live up to the expectations that she's somehow failed to remember that there's a real, deeply flawed, deeply feeling person there. And she'd bet she's not the only one to do it, either, she thinks, recalling the bits she'd observed in and out of the hospital.

"That night. When Moishe woke up," she suddenly says. "You left to do a show and didn't come back. Don't worry," she adds, seeing the panic rise on Midge's face. "I was the only one who noticed. And when you did, you seemed..."

"Confused? Distracted? Guilty?"

"Happy," Mei declares. Midge's face falls.

"Well, shit," she mumbles through another bite.