We all convened for cocktails at the bar. I was still glowing from my workout. I cinched that big order for my product with the buyer from CVS, a bronzed older lady named Donna. She already liked the product, and she liked me, you could tell. She said conspiratorially, “I have an idea: how about I order a thousand units of FlowAir from you now, and then tomorrow I can spend an extra half hour at the pool.” We shook on it and I turned around and there was Tom Sanduli with two drinks.

“Thought you might like to celebrate,” he said.

“Were you eavesdropping?” I asked, accepting the cosmo and sipping it. A little too sweet for me, but okay.

“I read the body language,” he said, looking at me over his drink. “You made the sale, didn’t you?”

“I live in hope,” I said.

We kept up this skippy dialogue for a while and had another round. I was really happy about the inhalers. I kept noticing the gap between Tom’s jacket and his neck. I was imagining what a tailor would have to do to fix that gap. I even said something, I think, about him getting another jacket. He was too big for his jacket. Something. I don’t even know what I said. And sort of absentmindedly, like it was a grocery list running in the back of my mind, I imagined him picking me up and setting me on his hips, my legs around his waist, and kissing me. I am a small compact person and Tom is a big person. That was my thought then. But it was more like background noise, it wasn’t a whole thought. Then it was time to go to dinner. Everybody fanned out. I said “See you in a few” to Tom and a couple other reps I knew, and we all planned to sit together.