LITMIR.BIZ

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courteous—and hopefully sober-sounding—conversation with my boss.

      “Hey, Mike, great tie,” I say, admiring the green silk background imprinted with teeny-tiny Santa Claus faces.

      “You like it? Thanks.”

      I do like it. Somehow, what’s grotesque overkill on Merry seems pleasantly festive on anybody else.

      “Ooh, anybody want to Slide?” Brenda squeals as a familiar refrain of “boogie woogie woogies” erupts from the DJ booth.

      Mike and I pass. I’d do it, but I’m afraid my boobs would pop out of my dress every time I did the leaning-over step. Pleased with my foresight, I stand sedately with my boss and watch Brenda and Latisha join the line dance.

      “Dianne said if she ever saw me doing the Electric Slide, she’d break up with me,” Mike confides.

      “You’re kidding.”

      “Nope.”

      “Well, then, she’s kidding.”

      “She’s not,” he says. “She thinks it’s a ridiculous dance.”

      I glance at the ranks of office workers gliding four steps back, four steps forward in perfect sync—except for Merry, who keeps going the wrong way and crashing into people.

      Okay, it might be a ridiculous dance, but it’s fun. Suddenly I feel sorry for Mike, banned from the Slide and God only knows what else.

      “You know, Dianne’s not here,” I point out. “You should try the Slide.”

      “I can’t.”

      “Sure you can. She’d never find out.”

      He looks around the room nervously, even skyward, as though expecting to spot Dianne in a trenchcoat and dark glasses astride one of the fake shooting stars.

      I find myself thinking of Alec the married account exec, flirting madly with Mercedes. And even Brenda, wearing the rock that consumed a few months’ worth of Paulie’s NYPD salary, yet blatantly checking out other guys. And Buckley, dragging his heels about moving in with Sonja.

      Of course, in the back of my mind there’s always Will, who cheated on me with Esme Spencer, who played Dot to his George in a summer-stock production of Sunday in the Park with George.

      Maybe it’s good that I’m single. Maybe I don’t want to meet someone after all. At least, not for a while.

      I look at Mike, who’s wistfully watching the dance floor.

      “So, are you allowed to Macarena?” I can’t resist asking, expecting a big laugh and maybe even applause.

      He fails to see the hilarity. In fact, he takes the question seriously and actually looks uncertain. “She never mentioned that, but…”

      You know, maybe it’s the martinis again, but I’m starting to really dislike that Dianne. She seems so sweet on the phone, but as a girlfriend, she’s a little Nazi-ish, don’t you think?

      “I need a cigarette,” I announce to Mike. “And you need a new beer. That one’s empty.”

      “Okay,” he says obediently, and once again I’m saddened. Poor, poor Mike. He may be the boss in the office, but clearly his power stops there.

      I head for the door and gratefully indulge my craving for menthol out on the litter-strewn sidewalk with a bunch of other banished addicts.

      We smokers are an eclectic bunch. There are stressed-out upper-management types and administrative assistants who wear sneakers with their stockings on weekday subway commutes; fresh-out-of-Ivy-League assistant media buyers and well-past-retirement-age grandmotherly career secretaries who seem reassuringly immune to lung cancer.

      We puff away and talk about the good old days when you could actually smoke in a bar in New York. One old-timer (not Yvonne, but she might as well be, given the overall blowsy broad persona, complete with raspy voice and borough accent) waxes nostalgic about smoking at her desk.

      Then an icy wind gusting off the East River has us hastily stubbing our half-burned butts and scuttling back inside.

      I head directly to the bar. Mostly because I don’t see any of my friends in the crowd, and the bar is always a safe place to park oneself. But also because I need another drink.

      I order yet another blood-orange martini and try to sip it slowly as I watch everyone on the dance floor bopping around to “Love Shack.” I spot Latisha out there more or less dirty dancing with Myron the mail-room guy, who’s been after her since before she dumped her loser boyfriend Anton last summer. She’d better not screw things up with Derek, her new boyfriend, a single dad who shares her passion for the New York Yankees…and, according to Latisha, her passion for—well, for passion.

      I wonder morosely if I’ll ever experience passion again. God forbid my sleazy romp between the StarWars sheets was my sexual swan song, but I can’t seem to conjure up any situation in which I’ll be having sex any time soon. I’ve sworn off one-night stands, so unless somebody sweeps me off my feet…“Hi.”

      I turn around to see a strange guy standing beside me. Not Jeff S-n strange; just strange as in I’ve never seen him before in my life.

      I look over both shoulders. Huh. Apparently, he was talking to me.

      “Hi,” I counter, cautiously.

      “I’m Jack.”

      “I’m Tracey.”

      And they lived happily ever after.

      Yeah, right. I wish.

      This guy is so cute that I find myself wondering why he’s come over to me, having momentarily forgotten that I, too, am now cute.

      “Do you work at Blaire Barnett?” Jack asks.

      Well, duh. Everybody in the room works at Blaire Barnett.

      “No,” I find myself saying, “I’m a nurse at Bellevue. Mental ward.”

      “You are?”

      I laugh at the befuddled expression in his big brown eyes. “No. I’m just being a wise-ass.”

      And probably sabotaging my chances of any kind of future relationship with this guy, but I can’t seem to help myself.

      “Actually, I work at Blaire Barnett,” I confess, and sip my drink. This one is stronger than the last. Much stronger. So strong I taste no blood orange; I swear it’s all vodka.

      “Yeah, I work there, too,” Jack says.

      Have I mentioned how much I love big brown little-boy eyes on a grown man? No?

      That’s probably because I never realized it until this very moment. He’s tall—much taller than I am, and I’m wearing heels. He’s broad-shouldered. His hair is the same melted-milk-chocolate color as his eyes; kind of wavy and combed back from his face. He’s got a great mouth with a full lower lip. And the best part of all: dimples. He has two dimples, one on either side of his mouth. They’re there even when he’s not smiling.

      “So what do you do?” Jack is asking.

      Okay, so he’s not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree. Or maybe he’s just hard of hearing. But who the hell cares about his brain or his ears when he’s got eyes like that?

      “I work at Blaire Barnett,” I repeat patiently, feeling almost like a nurse in Bellevue’s mental ward.

      “I know…. I mean, what do you do there?”

      Oh. Good. He’s not stupid or hearing impaired.

      “I work in account management.” Please don’t make me say the S word.

      “Doing what?”

      I feign confusion. “What?”

      Okay, he’s not stupid or hearing

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