The encounter left me a little dazed. I didn’t tell anyone about it. Actually, I didn’t really have anyone to tell. The person at work I spent the most time with was my colleague Zoey, and I definitely wouldn’t be telling her. You don’t know Zoey, but you do. Every company, every school in the world has a Zoey—the kind of girl who attracts male attention like a porch light attracts moths. She was naturally beautiful, skinny without starving or Zumba, born with a body that designers design for. She even looked good without makeup, which I knew for a fact since she usually spent the first hour at work applying it.

Even worse than being beautiful was that she knew it. A few months after I started at ICE, before I really even knew her, she offered to give me some makeup, which sounded like her saying that I could be pretty if I tried. I think what hurt the most about her offer was that, whether she meant to convey that message or not, it was true. I didn’t take care of myself. After Dan, my ex-husband, divorced me, I just sort of let things slide. Not completely, but enough to change. I put on a little weight, and stopped spending time at the mirror or buying clothes. I guess I was treating myself the way I felt—undesirable.

At the opposite extreme, Zoey was in her prime with a perpetually full roster of men, with someone always up to bat and someone always on deck, ready to fill in when she tired of the current player. She was the one our company’s airline and hotel reps, mostly balding, middle-aged men, would plan their office visits around. I worked a trade show with her once, and the whole time men circled our booth like vultures over carrion. Zoey ate it up. Why wouldn’t she?

What I had said to the lawyer about eating alone at lunch was true, mostly. One of us was supposed to watch the phones, but that’s what voice mail is for, right? The real reason I hated to eat lunch with Zoey was because all I ended up doing was politely listening to her myriad stories of affairs and conquests while I sat there feeling frumpy and old. It’s easy to hate the game when you’re losing.

Chapter Three

CHAPTER

Three

I can’t believe that I’m actually considering this man’s proposal. Am I crazy, desperate or just really lonely? Probably all of the above.

Elise Dutton’s Diary