decorates her cubicle—and her person—seasonally. I heard she actually showed up decked out as a leprechaun last Saint Patrick’s Day, and in a witch costume on Halloween. Mercifully, I wasn’t here for either of those events. I was, however, forced to participate when she organized a Thanksgiving feast last month, where we all had to bring something. I brought canned cranberry sauce. The crummy Key Food store brand kind. Mary brought pies she made from scratch using sugar pumpkins she grew on her fire escape.
It’s like she’s embraced her inner preschool teacher, corporate decorum be damned. Reportedly, upper management thinks she’s fun and boosts morale. The rest of us think she’s a pain in the ass, but the rest of us don’t count. We just have to make like pilgrims and Secret Snowflakes, and come February, she’ll probably have us all making construction paper hearts and tramping through the woods to cut down cherry trees.
The elevator stops at my floor.
“Don’t forget to sign up before you leave tonight,” Mary calls after me as I step out into the empty corridor.
I suppose I should be looking forward to the whole Secret Snowflake thing. At least somebody will be buying me Christmas presents. Not that a shrink-wrapped drugstore coffee mug filled with hard candies in shiny red wrappers can compete with boyfriend baubles.
From someone other than Will, that is—he was as stingy with his baubles as he was with his affection.
As I wave my card key in front of the sensor beside the locked glass doors leading to the floor reception area, I find myself wondering what it would be like to be showered with gifts from somebody who is head over heels in love with me.
Will I ever find out?
Wah. I want to find out. I want baubles and happily-ever-after, dammit.
“Hi, Tracey,” Lydia, the hugely pregnant receptionist, says from her desk, where she’s reading today’s Newsday. “Going to the office party?”
“Definitely. Are you?”
She laughs. “If I’m not in labor. Are you bringing a date?”
“Nope.”
Is it my imagination, or is that pity in her mascara-fringed eyes?
Look, I know I’m not supposed to go through life obsessed with finding Mr. Right. I’m not supposed to feel inadequate because I’m single; I’m not supposed to need a man.
I’m supposed to be an independent woman who can stand on her own; a woman with a promising career and cultural interests and plenty of good friends.
I’m supposed to be like Murphy Brown, Mary Richards, Elaine Benes. I’m suppose to make it after all—a hat-tossing single woman in the city, confident and savvy and solo. Or does that just happen on television sitcoms? Old, outdated television sitcoms?
As I make my way down the hall toward accounts payable, I decide there is a certain irony in the fact that I’m spending my nights watching Nick at Nite and TV Land reruns about women who actually have lives. Fulfilling lives that are too busy for endless speculation about how and when and where to meet a soul mate.
In real life, I don’t know many—okay, any—willingly single women. Everyone I know, aside from Raphael’s lesbian friends, either has a man or wants a man.
Is that so wrong?
Well, maybe I’ll meet somebody any second now. Maybe I’ll round the next corner just past the water fountain and I’ll crash into the perfect man. Maybe he’ll steady me by holding my arms just above my elbows, and we’ll look into each other’s eyes, and…
Kismet.
What? It happens.
It happens all the time.
Well, it does.
Okay, it happens all the time in Sandra Bullock movies, and sometimes it happens in real life, too.
I find myself holding my breath as I approach the corner, wondering if this is more than a fantasy—if maybe it’s a premonition.
I decide that if I round the corner and crash into a man—any man—that it’s fate. As long as he’s single and reasonably attractive.
Okay, here I go.
This could be it.
I squeeze my eyes shut and turn the corner.
Open my eyes.
Empty.
The long carpeted hallway stretches ahead, empty as my love life.
Oh, well. Deep down, I knew it would be.
Deep down, I don’t believe in kismet after all.
4
“Where is everyone?” Seated beside me on a bar stool, Brenda lifts the hand that’s not holding a blood-orange martini to check her watch.
The four of us have been here at Space for a half hour and a round and a half of cocktails. We’re sitting at the curved stainless-steel bar beneath a vast black “sky” dotted with tiny white lights that are supposed to be constellations. The bartenders are wearing silver jumpsuits. Mirrors line every surface, making the place look infinitely expansive—and reflecting me in all my slinky red glory.
I’m not looking at my own reflection. Well, not most of the time. The thing is, when I do happen to catch my eye, I can’t seem to get over that this is really me. It’s enough to banish any lingering doubts about being the only woman in the place baring a little cleavage and a lot of thigh.
“What time is it?” Yvonne asks.
“Eight. And the party starts at eight. Are the four of us the only punctual people in the whole freaking—”
“Nope,” Latisha cuts in, pointing across the cavernous room toward the door. “Look who’s here.”
“Let me guess. Judy Jetson?” My quip strikes me as more amusing than it should, courtesy of the potent second drink I just sucked down.
“Nope, Mary,” Latisha says, gesturing.
“Madonna,” Brenda murmurs, wide-eyed.
“Oh, so we’re talking Mary, Mother of God?” I swear, I’m cracking myself up.
“No, Mary, the office freak. Look.”
Still giggling, I set down my empty glass and turn to see that Mary—excuse me, Merry—has just made her entrance. Her roly-poly figure is encased in a bright red dress with white fake fur trim. Incredulous, I gape at the shiny black boots below and the Santa hat perched jauntily on her round head. All that’s missing is a sack full of toys slung on her back.
“Now, that’s a real shame,” Yvonne says dryly, shaking her pink bouffant, an unlit cigarette in one hand and a martini glass in the other.
Mary spots us and makes a beeline for the bar. “Hi, everyone!”
I
