Monica shivers slightly as a fat wet droplet of sweat moves serpentine along her collarbone and between her breasts, finally disappearing into the fabric of her already moist bra. Of course her high school would have their Field Day on the hottest day of the year, she thinks miserably, staring up at the unrelenting sun looming impossibly large and orange above the football field.

She glances over at the group of cheerleaders who are standing a few feet away from where she sits on the bleachers. Rachel is among them and she takes advantage of their preoccupation with the boys on the football team to stare openly at her oldest friend. Rachel's skin is tan and toned, a marked contrast to her own pale, almost translucent, complexion. Girls like Rachel were made for hot summer days like this, she thinks ruefully. Whereas sweat has been dripping from Monica's hairline almost nearly as soon as she'd stepped out into the oppressive humidity of the unseasonably warm June day, it seems to shimmer on Rachel's bronze skin, her honey streaked hair blowing in the wind as Monica's own raven locks stick messily to her neck and face.

"Places, ladies!" Ms. Thompson, their physical education teacher barks out and Monica rises from her seat grimacing slightly as her skin scrapes against the scalding metal riser. Her thighs chafe painfully against one another, sticky from sweat, and too large to be entirely contained by her regulation gym shorts. She remembers with embarrassment the first day of class when Ms. Thompson had supplied her with a boy's uniform, none of the girl's sizes quite adequate for her large frame.

Tugging slightly at the ill-fitting top, much too tight around her chest but overly baggy at her waist, she trudges to the lane of the track Ms. Thompson indicates and concentrates on moving her body into position. The other girls she notices are still chatting and have yet to crouch down at the starting line more interested in socializing than the race. But Monica is having none of it. Her hair may be matted, her skin may be sun burnt, and her body may be fat, but she has something her thin beautiful peers will never have: sheer force of will.

As the starting pistol shatters the relative quiet of the afternoon, her classmates step across their starting lines and begin running along the track, lazily jogging with a hair flip and a grin for the boys on the sidelines. But not Monica. Though her weight delays her a bit at the start, she lowers her head and concentrates all her energy on propelling her large body forward. As she gains speed she feels herself changing, the wind rushing past her, lifting the heat from her sweat soaked body and her insecurities and doubts along with it. As she rushes past the finish line, arms raised triumphantly above her head, she is no longer fat, or naïve, or second best, or any of the qualifiers she's been given her entire life. Monica is none of those things. Monica is a winner.

"Monica?" The familiar voice rings out. She turns to the stands to look for her mother's face, giddy with anticipation for the pride she'll find there.

"Monica, are you there?...No? Well, I can't imagine where you could be. It's not like you're at your job, after all. Anyhow I just called to tell you that we've asked the Milners not to bring any dates along to dinner tomorrow night. It was a little embarrassing to tell the truth, but I know you wouldn't want to be the only single one there. And really I wasn't all that excited about that harpy Vanessa Milner rubbing that would-be son-in-law orthodontist in my face again. Well anyhow, see you then, dear. Don't wear that blue dress. Okay? Bye, now."

Monica rubs a hand across her tired eyes and reluctantly rises to a sitting position on her couch. Though a quick glance at her body reminds her that she's dropped the weight of her adolescence, the sweat of her dream is unfortunately still very, very real. It's hot in her apartment, even hotter than it'd been before she drifted off to sleep a few hours ago, the door to the terrace she'd left open to seduce a breeze doing little to alleviate the torrid air. As her mother had needlessly reminded her, Monica was currently unemployed and these late afternoon naps, probably brought on by the uncharacteristic depression she'd been experiencing, had become something of a staple. The sliver of remaining triumph she'd felt from her dream quickly evaporates as a quick glance at her answering machine confirms her mother's call is the only one of the afternoon, the numerous restaurants she'd rang that morning clearly uninterested in her services.

She deliberates a moment, trying to decide between nodding off once again or getting up from her nap, when the decision is made for her by the entrance of her two next door neighbors. The relationship between the friends is such that doors are always open, fridges often raided- hers anyhow, the boys seldom cooked- and privacy rarely respected.

Not surprisingly, Joey makes a beeline to the fridge with hardly a nod of acknowledgement in her direction. Belatedly she feels the cool crisp refrigerated air drift across the apartment and sits further up in her seat to catch the welcome breeze. Meanwhile, Chandler forgoes the kitchen in favor of plopping himself beside her on the couch, lifting and then gently replacing her calves into his lap. "How's it going?" He asks in a tone that is clearly trying, but failing, to conceal his concern.

"Eh," she replies, much too hot and depressed to attempt insincerity.

"That well, huh?" He asks with a wry smile patting her knee in comfort. "Hey," he tells her a moment later bouncing excitedly in his seat and rocking her legs up and down a bit with him, "I got stuck in an elevator at work today! The lights were out, there was no A.C. and Gladys from accounts payable, who always smells like pickles, was there with me!" He finishes triumphantly. "That's got to make you feel a little better, right?" He asks hopefully.

"It does actually," she tells him truthfully with what feels like her first smile of the day, sitting up fully now and reclaiming her legs to tuck them beneath her. "Why does she smell like pickles all the time?" She asks curiously.

"One of life's great mysteries," he tells her with a shrug, his boyish face breaking into a grin.

"Uh, now I want pickles," Joey tells them in exasperation, reversing his course from towards the living room back to the kitchen. "Do you have any in here?" Joey asks from behind the refrigerator door he's thrown open.

"Top shelf," Monica tells him.

"Sweet!" He exclaims bringing a large plate of food, and surely enough a pickle, into the living room and plopping into the large armchair before digging in.

"Jeez, Joey," Monica remarks, taking in Joey's impressive display of eating, "You'd think you didn't eat anything today."

"I haven't," Joey manages to mumble through a mouthful of sandwich. "Caterer never showed up at work today. There was no food, no cookies, no little mini-pizzas, or those little bread cups with the filling thingy." Joey laments sounding near tears at the absence of all his favorite snacks.

"So your play doesn't have a caterer?" Monica asks, excitement and hope, so long dormant, beginning to unfurl in her chest. Though not regarded as the most talented of stage presences by his friends who had endured their share of his off- off- off- Broadway productions over the years, Joey had somehow managed to snag the role as an understudy in the renowned Cherry Lane Theatre's production of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof set to premier in the fall. The show was already getting an enormous amount of attention by the press and there was even talk that public broadcasting would be recording the production for television. Being affiliated with the show in any way was an honor, but Joey's role as the understudy to Brick meant he was just one man's stomach flu away from a huge break in his career. His casting had been a great mystery to them all until one day Monica had happened upon him and the play's director out to lunch. A beautiful, older woman, she'd looked at Joey like a hungry wolf might look at a chicken. Though her passion was really restaurant work, Monica could totally cater, especially for such a high profile production as Joey's play. Monica could cater her ass off.

"Nope," Joey answers conversationally, now through a mouthful of cold lasagna, clearly insensate to Monica's hints.

"Hmm, if only we knew someone who could cater and who didn't currently have a job," Chandler chimes in now, rubbing his chin in mock contemplation.

"I know," Joey answers him seriously, now shoveling spoonfuls of pie into his mouth. "I don't know what we're going to do."

"Do about what?" A new voice asks from the doorway. Monica's childhood friend and roommate Rachel, still as shimmery and toned in the hot summer weather as in Monica's dream, moves into the living room now, unceremoniously scooting Chandler over on the couch and settling herself in his place and grabbing a magazine from the side table.

"Joey's play needs a caterer," Monica tells her, leadingly.

"Oh hey, you could do that Mon," Rachel replies distractedly, already tuning out the conversation taking place in favor of the celebrity news of the day.

"Yeah, Monica," Chandler teases. "Why didn't you think of that?"

She spares him a quick eye roll before turning to Joey and pleading, "What do you think Joe? Do you think your bosses will go for it?"

"I'll talk to Gail, first thing tomorrow," Joey tells her excitedly. "This is going to be so cool, you working with me. Ooh, ooh. Can you make those little frittata things?"

"Get me that job, Joey, and I'll make whatever you want," Monica promises, already feeling the surge of energy that always erupts in her at the start of a new project. She's hardly paying attention to the conversation taking place between her friends, preoccupied with lists of groceries and equipment she'll need to procure when Joey's next words reclaim her attention.

"So Rebecca got really, really sick. Had to fly back home and everything and you guys are never going to believe who they brought in to take the role." Joey is telling Chandler and an inattentive Rachel.

"Al Pacino?" Chandler ponders aloud, ignoring the rhetorical nature of the question. "William Shatner? No, no. Judith Light. Is it Judith Light?" He continues excitedly as if he may have magically happened upon the correct answer.

"No man, but that would be awesome," Joey agrees before howling, "Angela!" The two friends snigger together at the Tony Danza impersonation before Joey clarifies, "It's Kathy. Remember her?"

Chandler does indeed remember Kathy. Truth be told, his remembrances of her are far fonder and more frequent than he'd like his friend to know, so he nervously rambles off a new list of celebrities hoping to disguise the quickening of his pulse and flush of heat the name evokes in him. "Um, Kathy who? Kathy Bates? Kathy Lee? Cathy the cartoon?"

"Of course you remember Kathy," Rachel interjects distractedly. Rachel, probably more than any of them, had been front and center for Chandler's brief but ardent obsession with Joey's ex-girlfriend. Chandler inwardly rues the toxic mix of an excellent memory, a love of gossip, and a disinterest in preserving Chandler's dignity that leads Rachel to add, "You were in love with her. Don't you remember?"

"No I wasn't," Chandler snaps back defensively. He must notice the strange looks the others are sending him however, because he adds a moment later with forced calmness, "You must be thinking of Joey. Joey was in love with her."

He strains to catch Rachel's eye, but she remains happily unaware of his efforts, flipping idly through her Cosmopolitan.

"I wouldn't say love," Joey chimes in now, oblivious to Chandler's discomfort. "Though we had a pretty good run. Remember how you talked me into being more serious with her, Chandler?" Chandler remembers encouraging his roommate to date another woman he'd been seeing at the time, leaving Kathy unattached and available. But of course, his efforts had been perverted and the end result had been Joey and Kathy becoming closer. The twinge of resentment and bitterness he'd felt so deeply months ago watching his best friend romancing the girl of his dreams rises up in his gut joining the anxious tension that he's been feeling since Joey's mentioned Kathy's name.

"No, no. I distinctly remember Chandler moping around because he was in love with Kathy and she was dating…Ouch. Monica! Will you please stop tapping me!" Rachel breaks off in exasperation, finally looking up from her reading to admonish the other woman who's been reaching around the back of the couch to pat her friend's arm with increasing force.

"I think you're thinking of Janice, Rachel," Monica tells her friend purposefully evoking one of Chandler's earlier thwarted love affairs. She not so subtly jerks her head towards Joey with an exaggerated raise of her eyebrows. Chandler appreciates the effort but can't help but marvel at how Joey could still fail to recognize the message in Monica's pretty terrible attempts at non-verbal communication. "Chandler was in love with Janice and she was in love with her husband. Chandler was moping around because of Janice." Monica enunciates the other woman's name as if speaking to a small child.

"Uh, don't get me started on Janice," Joey moans, before adding apologetically to Chandler, "Sorry dude, but she was the worst." As it happens his contrition is totally unnecessarily as Chandler couldn't be more thrilled that the conversation has moved away from his unrequited love for his roommate's once girlfriend and over to his one time love interest. "If you all are going to start yapping about Janice, I'm gonna go head back to the apartment," Joey announces vacating the arm chair and heading for the door. "Thanks for the grub, Monica," he tells her rubbing his noticeably bloated belly. "I can't wait to eat like that at work."

After confirming Joey's exit from the apartment, Chandler turns towards Rachel to ask angrily, "Are you crazy?"

"What?" She replies defensively.

"Joey never knew about my thing for Kathy, alright? And he's not going to know either, got it?" He snaps hurriedly with another glance back at the door.

"Yeah, okay," Rachel agrees petulantly. "Jeez. What's the big deal? It was like six months ago."

"It's not a big deal," Chandler insists, his excited demeanor contrasting markedly with his declaration. "I just don't want to explain to my best friend how I couldn't stop thinking about his girlfriend when they were together because I'm a terrible person."

"You're not a terrible person, honey. You didn't act on your feelings, right? Even though you thought she might be feeling something too. I'd say that makes you a good person," Monica tells him consolingly rubbing his back. "A good friend."

"Thank you, Monica," Chandler replies with a little smile for his friend before returning to Joey's news. "I can't believe Joey's in a play with Kathy," he sighs wistfully. There had been something about Joey's ex-girlfriend that had attracted Chandler like no woman had ever done before, even Janice whom he had loved as much as he thought possible. Some feeling like she and he belonged together, a kind of destiny or fate. "Do you think she's seeing anyone?" Chandler asks aloud a moment later, an idea beginning to form in the back of his mind.

"Oh, no," Rachel admonishes setting her magazine on the table beside her to point accusingly at Chandler. "I see what you're up to."

"What?" He proclaims in mock indignation. "It's an innocent question."

"Innocent, my butt." Rachel retorts. After a moment though she seems to reconsider, adding, "You know what? Forget it. I think you should go for it. You were crazy about her and I seem to remember that for some reason she was kind of into you too." Chandler is torn between feeling affronted at Rachel's slight and bolstered by her assessment that his feelings may not have been totally unrequited. "Enough time has passed that it won't be like you're breaking any bro-code" Rachel air quotes the term with derision.

"Yeah?" Chandler asks hopefully. He hopes, prays really, that Rachel is right because one thing he knows for sure is that he's going to find a way into Joey's rehearsals and a chance to see Kathy again.

"Definitely," Rachel agrees. "But you need to be subtle about it." She looks him over before adding doubtfully, "Can you be subtle?"

"Sure," Chandler affirms demonstratively throwing his arms along the back of the sofa nearly taking off Monica's head in the process. "Subtle is my middle name."

"I thought your middle name was Mur…" Monica begins. Before she can finish her sentence though Chandler's warm hand is clamped tightly across her lips muffling her words.

"Don't you dare," he tells her seriously, still forcibly muzzling her. She has the childish impulse to lick his hand but thinks better of it and merely shrugs in acquiescence.

After a few threatening glances, he releases her and after assuring himself his hated moniker will remain a secret he asks distractedly, "What was I saying?"

"You were being subtle," Monica reminds him with a grin.

"Right," he replies adjusting in his seat to better face his friends, bouncing slightly in his excitement. "So how am I going to get into those rehearsals?"

"Getting into them should be easy enough," Monica reasons aloud. "There are plenty of excuses we could dream up for why you'd need to stop by to see Joey at work. The trick is going to be coming up with a reason for you to be around Kathy," she looks over at her friend who is still nervously bouncing his leg up and down listening intently to her plan. "Well that and keeping you from jumping all over her when you are around her," she adds in mild disgust. What was it about a pretty girl that could reduce men to such driveling idiots?

"You're right," Chandler agrees nodding thoughtfully. "I need some excuse. I can't come off all pathetic and love sick."

They sit in contemplation for a bit, pondering Chandler's problem. Monica is just about to suggest he try to invite himself along to one of the cast outing she imagines they must take from time to time, when Chandler turns to her an odd glint in his eyes.

"What?" She asks suspiciously.

"You're going to be at rehearsals everyday," Chandler tells her smiling a little now.

"Yes," she agrees not liking what she suspects he's about to suggest.

"That must be a lot of work, catering for a big cast and crew like that. Especially if the show gets televised."

"No way," Monica states firmly cutting to the chase. There is no way she's going to let Chandler tag along on her catering gig just so he could make googly eyes at some woman. This was her career they were talking about!

"Come on, Mon. It will be perfect. I've got two weeks of vacation that I could use and no one would suspect anything besides that I was just there helping out my friend and I'd get to see her everyday," he abruptly ceases his recitation of the pros of his plan upon noticing Monica's unimpressed glare. "Oh come on!" He pleads, "I'd do it for you!"

"You wouldn't even give me the last blueberry muffin the other day," she reminds him.

"Please," he begs pathetically. "Pretty please? You want blueberries? I'll buy you all the blueberries you want. I'll buy you your own blueberry farm." When she still looks unmoved, he adds sincerely, "Please, Mon? I liked her so much and I think she liked me too. If I could just see her again…" He trails off sadly, looking to his friend pleadingly

Taking pity on him she reluctantly concedes, but not before confirming, "You'll work hard?"

"Harder than I've ever worked before."

"That's not saying much," she remarks wryly, before continuing her list of conditions, "You won't mess up the food?"

"I'll do everything perfectly. Better than perfect, Monica perfect!" He promises.

"And you really care about this girl?" She asks in a softer voice.

"I do," Chandler admits solemnly. "I really, really do."

"Alright then," Monica agrees in a huff. "You're hired."