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Armani suit), the entire female workforce (and some of the male) fell as slaves at his feet.
    Me included.
    The second I set eyes on him, I just knew that I wanted him, that I had to have him. He was perfect. My dad and Periwould love him. My friends would love him. Julia would appreciate his aesthetic, athletic male beauty and ask me if he was any good in bed.
    So I would love him.
    And besides, Adam was the perfect candidate for my Goals by Thirty list, and time was running out.
    I fell hard.
    And so the whispered speculation started. Is he married? Is he dating? (Is he gay?) Is there a significant other? Fortunately for me, because of my friendship with Tracey in Human Resources (she is the central point for all gossip and speculation), I was able to get the scoop on him.
    Single. And straight. Y-e-s! Y-e-s!
    Apparently, he’d been involved in a long relationship with some girl from a good Boston family, but she’d practically ditched him at the altar. She found true love with a street artist from South Street Seaport. (Word has it that he could juggle knives and eat fire like you wouldn’t believe. I think I saw him once.)
    Stupid, stupid girl. Poor, poor Adam and his broken heart.
    But lucky me.
    I fondly imagined myself listening to his tale of heartbreak with understanding and sympathy. And then, when he’d talked out his grief, I would soothe his wounds with the balm of my kindness and beauty. He would forget all about his cheating, WASP fiancée and fall in love with me…
    Adam was a dream come true— my dream come true. Tall, gorgeous, successful, sexy. And with a loft apartment in Greenwich Village, too. Thank you, God!
    From that day forward I made it my mission in life to look as fabulous as possible every day. You would not believe how much money I spent on new outfits to tempt him. Or how early I had to get up in the morning to get ready for work. I rode the elevator at the times I knew he would ride the elevator (after having carefully watched him to ascertain this information). I visited the coffee cubicle whenever I thought he would get theurge for liquid refreshment. But it seemed that all, alas, was in vain. Although charming and polite whenever our paths happened to cross, he would smile and say, “Hello, how are you?” in the same manner as he would say, “Hello, how are you?” to the rest of the smitten workforce.
    I was a desperate woman. So desperate, in fact, that I began to accidentally-coincidentally visit the ladies’ room at the same time as he got the call of nature. (Yes, I know this is sad, but I was getting to the point of losing hope.)
    I was so anxious to make some sort of breakthrough with him, and so mesmerized by his handsome face, that on one occasion I nearly followed him into the men’s room. When he paused at the door and turned to me, I thought, Hel-lo, here we go, and gave him my best beaming smile (all the while mentally thanking my dad for insisting on expensive orthodontic treatment). But instead of asking me out for dinner, he pointed at the MEN sign on the door, smiled right back at me and said, “You sure you want to do this?”
    God, I nearly died.
    From that moment on, I left him to ride the elevator, drink coffee, and visit the bathroom alone, ashamed and embarrassed that I’d been such a fool. Plus, my face would flush strawberry red whenever he was near, and this is not a good look for me. So I avoided him like the plague.
    And just when I’d completely given up on ever making any progress with Adam, Lady Luck smiled on me. My boss, Johnny Cray Senior, did, in fact, die.
    Now this may sound very hardhearted and callous of me, feeling lucky at the death of my boss, but Johnny Cray Senior lived a full and active life. He passed away while having a very good time on honeymoon with wife number four (a pretty, blonde, twenty-eight-year-old ex-cheerleader, Babette). And although I was (obviously) sad to learn of his passing, Johnny Senior was eighty-four and died