Slightly Settled. Wendy Markham

      Buckley crumples his sandwich wrapper into a ball and drains the last of his Snapple. “Ready to go back to work?”

      “Nah. Let’s play hooky for the rest of the afternoon.”

      “Seriously?” He looks intrigued.

      “Nope. I was kidding. I’m in the middle of helping Mike with a New Business presentation. And then Brenda and Latisha and I are going to try to meet and figure out if we can organize a bachelorette party for Yvonne sometime in the next few weeks.”

      “When’s she getting married?”

      “Over Christmas. She and Thor are eloping to Vegas.”

      Thor is Yvonne’s Swedish pen pal. When she met him a few months ago, they got engaged. She swears this is merely a green-card marriage, but we think she’s in love. When she’s with him, she’s all girly. As girly, that is, as a tough old broad like Yvonne can be.

      “Okay, I guess I’ve got to get back to the office, then,” Buckley says reluctantly.

      “Same here.”

      We push back our chairs and carry our garbage to the can as a pair of hovering corporate drones descend on our vacant table. “But wouldn’t it be fun to blow off work and go ice-skating or something?” Buckley muses.

      “Me on ice skates? Are you kidding?”

      “You grew up near Buffalo. You must have learned how to skate.”

      I shake my head.

      “Really? I’ll have to teach you.”

      An image flits into my mind as we make our way through a sea of office workers, down the stairs, through the deli and onto the street.

      I see myself in one of those short, cute pleated skating skirts and a fuzzy white sweater. Buckley is in one of those clingy skating jumpsuits they wear at the Olympics, yet he looks incredibly masculine in it.

      I know, I know, but it’s a fantasy.

      So, anyway, we’re gliding around the ice in front of 30 Rock. Classical music is playing, a gentle snow is falling—big, lazy flakes—and there’s not a soul on the rink but us.

      Fantasy, people! It’s a fantasy.

      He lifts me in his arms a few times, and we effortlessly do some fancy moves. Complicated stuff. Then he kisses me, and it’s totally passionate, and he says…

      “Do I have anything stuck between my teeth? Trace?”

      Thud. I land on Third Avenue, where a jackhammer is rattling and taxis are honking and Buckley’s in my face with his teeth bared, revealing a lovely hunk of chewed-up lettuce.

      “There’s something green between your front teeth,” I advise him, sighing inwardly as I reach into my bag for a cigarette.

      So much for fantasies.

      

      Mike Middleford, my new boss, is nothing like sexist, philandering, narcissistic Jake.

      For one thing, Mike treats me with respect. He asks my advice on PowerPoint presentations—poor guy isn’t very literate—and he doesn’t mind if I’m a few minutes late in the morning or if I sneak out for a few cigarette breaks.

      For another, he’s totally in love with his girlfriend, Dianne. Whenever she calls, I’m suppose to hunt him down to come to the phone, unless he’s in the men’s room or a meeting. It’s refreshing to see a guy light up when he hears that his girlfriend is on the phone. Dianne calls a lot, and she sounds really sweet. She always greets me by name and makes an effort to chat before she asks for Mike.

      Like today, she says, “Hi, Tracey, how’s it going? Are you psyched for the company Christmas party Saturday night?”

      “Yeah, it sounds like it’ll be fun.” Blaire Barnett had rented out Space, an entire three-floor nightclub in Chelsea, for the party. “Are you coming with Mike?”

      “Nah. He wants me to, but I wouldn’t know anybody.”

      Wow. She must feel really secure about her relationship. If Will was going to a party and I had the option of going with him, there’s no way I’d opt out.

      Then again, Mike goes out of his way to make sure he doesn’t miss her calls. Will lied and told me that the pay phone in his summer cast house didn’t take incoming calls. And, duh, I believed him.

      “Are you bringing a date?” Dianne asks.

      “Me? Nah. I’m not seeing anyone right now. My boyfriend and I broke up in September.”

      Why, I wonder, do I feel compelled to tell people about Will? I’m always bringing it up. To elevator men, cabdrivers, dressing-room attendants in clothing stores…it’s like no matter who I’m talking to, I manage to find a reason to announce that I’m recovering from a breakup.

      “That’s too bad,” Dianne says.

      “Yeah, it’s hard. But I’m sure I’ll find somebody new sooner or later.” Buckley flits into and out of my mind. So does Jeff S-n. How depressing.

      “I wish I knew somebody we could fix you up with, but I’m drawing a blank,” Dianne says. “Mike has a roommate, but he’s a real asshole.”

      “That’s okay.” I’m not desperate enough to consider a blind date…yet.

      “It stinks being alone around the holidays, though,” Dianne comments. “You get cheated out of boyfriend presents, jewelry, baubles…”

      Baubles?

      “I never thought of it that way.” I find myself thinking, wistfully, All those years with Will, and nary a bauble to show for it.

      “Then there’s New Year’s Eve….”

      “Right.” I hadn’t thought of that either. Gee, thanks, Dianne, for enlightening me.

      She sighs. “Oh, well.”

      Yeah. Easy for her to say.

      “So…is Mike there?”

      “He’s around somewhere.” If he’s not out shopping for diamond earrings or on the other line booking the presidential suite at the Sherry Netherland for December 31st. “I’ll go get him.”

      I find Mike by the copier, trying to help my friend Brenda clear a jam. He bolts the second I tell him I’ve got Dianne on hold.

      Brenda shakes her head. “Look at him drop everything and run. I hope she knows how lucky she is.”

      “Look at you. You’ve got Paulie.” It’s all I can do not to pronounce her husband’s name the way she does—“Po-aw-lie.” Sometimes her accent is contagious.

      “The honeymoon is over, Trace. I’ve been married four months, and already Paulie is telling me I’ve got to stop calling his cell during the day while he’s at work.”

      “Well, Brenda, he’s a cop. It’s probably distracting when he’s chasing some crack fiend down an alley and his phone rings, and it’s you asking him to pick up some fresh mozzarell’ on the way home.”

      We laugh, and I help her clear the jam—not without cursing the damned machine and whoever invented four freaking places for paper to get wedged. As we work on clearing it, we chat about the bachelorette party we’re going to plan for Yvonne, and then about the upcoming Christmas party.

      “Paulie’s having a bunch of guys over to watch the fight that night,” Brenda says, gingerly running one of her raspberry-colored talons along the paper output slot. “So I’ve got to clear out of there before six-thirty.”

      “You want to come over to my place before we go to the party? It doesn’t start till eight.”

      “By the time I take the PATH in and get a cab over to the club,