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He looked up toward our building and I found myself ducking my head out of sight. I slowly peeked again. My boss approached the statuesque, mocha sunbather. Meanwhile I was trying to process how this could possibly happen. Was everyone in the office (with this view) doing the same thing? Watching? Eventually participating? How on earth was he able to hook up with her? Did he just wing it and make a cold call on her? This was all too surreal to take in. My jowly, overweight boss with hair plugs, nonchalant, hands in his pockets, stood next to her, chatting her up. As she lay down on her belly, she picked up the lotion bottle and waved it at him, not looking at him. Ogling her like the disgusting-joke-telling-pig that he was, he loosened his tie, and then shot another glowering glance up my way, making me stupidly duck again. When I peeked up again he was rolling up his sleeves, and took the oil bottle from her and cumbersomely squatted down over her. As he began to apply the oil with. ‘Katie? Katie Wilson, is that you?’ ‘It’s Katie Barlow now. David Danfors, isn’t it? I’m surprised you remembered me.’ The man had been waiting for her outside Starbucks. He was wearing an expensive camelhair overcoat that, nonetheless wasn’t up to the winds coming off the lake in Chicago. He had been rubbing his hands together and stamping his feet in what had turned out to be a nippy morning. A bucket truck was out on the street, valiantly fighting the wind to put up illuminated snowflakes on the streetlight poles. Katherine grimaced, realizing now why she was bah humbug about pushing the Christmas season. Wade had died last Christmas season. She wasn’t prepared to relive the pain of that. ‘It’s been a year. Get back out there. Wade would want you to, you know he would.’ The nagging of Margie and Christine came back to her. She knew they were right. They had been right too that Wade had said he wouldn’t marry her at all unless she promised to get on with her life—which included.
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