“Don’t be alarmed if you sense a presence in the room with you,” said the desk clerk as we checked into the Cassadaga Hotel. For the people of Cassadaga, otherworldly apparitions are business as usual. In this tiny Central Florida town, the deceased are considered long-term residents, living shoulder-to-shoulder with certified psychics and mediums who make up a majority of the population. Cassadaga is known as the Psychic Capital of the World. Visitors arrive seeking answers, healing or a rendezvous with the dearly departed.

We’re sitting poolside at a Palm Springs resort. Two friends who haven’t seen each other in eight years. We’ve been talking non-stop for the last several hours, catching up. My friend flew in from Chicago for a girls weekend. She’d informed her husband the night before that she was heading out of town. That’s how they roll.

I’ve been reviewing past relationships lately for insight into my wobbly marriage. Which is how I find myself across the table from Ted at Thai Dishes in Santa Monica. The waitress sets down our spring rolls and shrimp wrapped in fried noodles. I keep my eyes on Ted and get straight to the point.

Showmances are ubiquitous in Hollywood. During a film shoot, you’re isolated with a small group of people over a condensed period. There’s little time to see anyone outside of work, let alone date or pay your bills. The job becomes an alternate reality. A bubble.

The death of Instagram influencer Gabby Petito and the murder earlier this year of Sarah Everard, a British woman killed while walking home alone, have shaken women around the world. We’re concerned and angry. Mostly angry. We identify with these women, as well as the countless women whose names don't make headlines.

My daughter is on a Zoom bat mitzvah right now. The girl stepping into Jewish womanhood is the daughter of my ex-husband’s best friend, “Max.” Max and his wife “Sophie” used to be close friends. Max was the best man at our wedding. I’d known his wife before he did. In fact, he’d met Sophie indirectly through me.

The lyrics to Kenny Rogers’ song, “The Gambler,” looped in my head for weeks before my wedding: “You gotta know when to hold ‘em, when to fold ‘em. Know when to walk and when to run.”

Even on the days when my partner and I are fighting and my brain screams “head for the hills!” my body tells me the opposite. He smells so… right. His scent is intoxicating to me. It’s like after-shave or cologne — except he uses neither. He, in turn, loves my scent first thing in the morning, after it’s had the night to marinate in me-ness. Our smells attract one another, our bodies are a couture fit. The rest we could work on.