Wanting Doesn’t Make Promises

I never had a first date. I didn't need it. From only watching, I knew he was the one. It's true, what people say-you just know. I knew the moment we took a break at the office to play "Finish My Sentence," and he insisted on not playing. In spite of that, I tried my best to get him to join.

He wouldn't.

Day after day, we passed on the sidewalk to lunch. My feet, in black, pointed heels, stood out like a farmer arriving in downtown New York. Click, click, click. Then his feet, (definitely not a farmer's but closer) coming to meet me, in subtle brown Sperry's. Tap, tap, tap.

There's another woman with her arm looped through his. A sharp pain jabs my chest and I can't breathe. But I lift my chin and keep walking.

That's the thing with men-you can't make them choose you.

But I can in the office. I spin in my desk chair and hold out my hands to catch myself on the chiseled corners of my desk. Down in my purse, there are two shades of lipstick.

"Coral and magenta," I say out loud. One for the steady mom, and one for the sultry mistress. That girl on his arm--she'd had a shade of magenta. I guess, "Violet vengeance."

My fingers clench so tightly that my fingernails prick my palms. If I've learned one thing, it's this: Never let your husband meet your best friend.