Reality is counting windows on a New York skyscraper. Today Orlando has a pink shirt on, and, in the break room, it’s worthy of a look from Janet. You know how catty she can be. But she knows how I feel about him, and in the brief aftermath of her raised eyebrow, where she seems to suddenly realize my slight obsession with the man, she adds, “I can talk to him for you.”

“No way.” I say.

“You’re not ready, are you?” She rubs my arm, and I wish that, like with everything else, I could use my spouse’s death as an excuse.