"Where's that vase?" muttered Amanda as she opened and closed the same cabinet door three or four times without ever really looking inside it. "Where's that vase?" she chanted as she picked up the phone receiver and then re-cradled it after dialing only two digits.

"Amanda . . . " Steve Drummond ventured calmly while continuing to cut a carrot into perfect little discs.

"Where's that vase??" The question that Steve had hitherto been able to dismiss as merely rhetorical had now become an unavoidable one, and Amanda's intense eyes were equally unavoidable at an approximate distance of two inches.

"It's a good thing I finally got over my infatuation with you two or three summers ago," Steve Drummond stated. "Otherwise I'd have been very likely to kiss you right now, and I know from experience that you would find that an inconvenient distraction at a moment like this. Anyway, let me try to answer your question. In the first place, I'm not quite sure which vase 'that vase' is. But this is scarcely significant, since (a) I don't at the moment know where any vases are, not even the ones I might conceivably have in my own apartment across town, and (b) you informed me when I arrived that you forgot to get any flowers."

"Oh yeah." The words were barely out of her mouth before she began noisily rummaging through a drawer full of utensils in search of the paring knife she had made a point of handing to Steve ten minutes before, with the declaration that this was "absolutely the only knife in the world" suitable for chopping carrots.

"It's remarkable," Steve Drummond reflected when the futile racket had finally subsided, "that you can be so very predictable without ever becoming tiresome."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Amanda smiled from across the room.

"It was meant as one."

"But anyway, you're wrong, dear. There have, incredible as it may seem, been a few people who did find me tiresome."

"Amateurs," shrugged Steve.

The doorbell rang.

"Ahh -- your first real guests."

"Oh? And what are you, then?" Amanda asked as she hastily tried to find a collander for the dripping lettuce she was clutching.

"I think I'm more of a 'fixture'," he said matter-of-factly. "And don't think I'm not proud of it," he added.

The new arrivals were Lea Simpson and Len Sanchez. Professor Sanchez, a slightly-built 36-year-old man with round glasses and a Beatles haircut, and Professor Simpson, a 37-year-old woman of boyish design with round glasses and a Beatles haircut, were as inseparable as they were, to the casual observer, indistinguishable. They lived together, or possibly just roomed together; nobody was sure whether or not they were "just friends", and since it was nobody's business, naturally everyone speculated about it more or less constantly when Simpson and Sanchez weren't there. Tonight, as always, they were both wearing narrow cloth neckties and plaid trousers. Simpson had some kind of bracelet on, but otherwise the symmetry was unbroken.

"We brought scotch," said Sanchez.

"And bourbon," said Simpson.

"Lovely," said Amanda as she exuded hugs. "Speaking of which . . . can I get you a drink?"

"Got it!" said Steve Drummond. "What'll it be -- scotch or bourbon?"

"Bourbon," said Sanchez.

"Scotch," said Simpson. "See, Len, I told you she'd hug us."

"You had a pool on whether or not I'd hug you?"

"Nonsense -- two participants is hardly a pool. Anyway, I hope you're not offended, Mandy," said Sanchez.

"Not at all. But I think it only fair to tell you that my hugging behavior can usually be predicted by applying a few simple rules."

Most expositors would have launched at once into an explanation of the rules of hugging, but not Amanda Kirkwood. Possessed of that peculiar modesty which only our most flamboyant and uninhibited friends seem to have, she was absolutely incapable of assuming that anyone would want to hear the end of her train of thought merely because she'd begun it. And not only did Amanda withhold her discourse until further notice that it was desired; she also became almost immediately involved in a game of indoor fetch (the other parties being Waldo and a plastic turnip), and consequently she was thoroughly distracted from the entire subject of hugging by the time Simpson broke the silence approximately five seconds later.

"So, what are they?" Simpson asked.

"What are what?" said Amanda as she squeaked the plastic turnip.

"The rules of hugging," said Steve Drummond.

"Oh. Three weeks or 75 miles of separation, whichever comes first. Or a special occasion, or an emotional moment of course." And Amanda excused herself to answer the door again.

"Jill, Nick, c'est formidable!" they heard her shriek with genuine glee from the kitchen. "Ohh, and chardonnay . . . "

"It's merlot, actually," said Jill. "Chardonnay is a white."

"Of course it is. I always get mixed up because the 'ch' sound reminds me of Michigan, and my friends in Michigan all drank red wine." At this point Amanda was ushering Jill into the kitchen, one long, elegant arm draped magnanimously over the other woman's petite shoulder. Nick, who had an aesthete's acute sense of timing, profited by this opportunity to sneak back to the car for the Darling Okapi. As he was closing the car door he encountered Julian and Becky, who had parked further up the block. Free of any clashing merlots, he displayed the micro-brew proudly to his friends.

"Mmm," said Julian. "Well, we ended up bringing ice cream. I hope that works out . . . we kind of had to wing it, didn't we, Becky?"

"I assured Julian that Amanda wouldn't have invited us to her party if she didn't esteem our ability to make sensible decisions about desserts and things," Becky explained to Nick while tugging affectionately at Julian's sleeve.

From inside, Amanda was looking out the window as the trio stepped into the bright light of the porch. "Becky is looking beautiful," she said, half to herself. "And that blue scarf Julian is wearing . . . I think the man I fall in love with will have a shirt in that shade of blue," she added, turning to Jill. "This isn't a prerequisite, mind you; just a sort of incidental prediction."

"Nick would know the name," said Jill.

"Of the man I'm going to fall in love with?"

"Of the color."

"Oh," responded Amanda, politely losing interest.

"Amanda," said Nick when he had closed the door behind Becky and Julian, and Amanda had finished hugging and admiring them and their ice cream, respectively. "I keep forgetting to ask you -- is there an occasion for this party?"

"Actually, yes. Today is sort of my birthday."

"Now just a minute," Julian protested genially. "What do you mean 'sort of my birthday'? I mean, I consider myself pretty broad-minded, but I must say I'm rather wedded to the traditional concept that it's either your birthday or it isn't."

"Well, now wait," chimed in Sanchez. "What if someone were born on one side of the International Date Line, and in later years celebrated his or her birthday on the other side? Am I being clever or annoying?" he added sotto voce to Simpson.

"I happen to know that Amanda has never crossed the International Date Line," said Steve Drummond. "That's just not her style."

"Okay, so do you mean that your birthday is really tomorrow, or yesterday, or something, but you're celebrating it tonight?" asked Jill.

"Not at all. My primary birthday isn't for months," said Amanda.

" 'Primary birthday'?" said Julian. "Maybe I've just led a parochial life, but isn't it still 'one to a customer'?"

"Exactly. I get one, and Waldo gets one. But since he doesn't know what to do with his, we have an agreement that I can use it. Sort of like a 99-year lease, you know."

"So today is Waldo's birthday," Julian recapped, "and you have made 'an agreement' with your dog that you can borrow it. Umm -- has it occurred to you, Amanda, that perhaps you're anthropomorphizing a bit?"

"Of course I'm anthropomorphizing. What do you think I have a dog for?"