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of a mid-orgasmic heart attack. Apparently, in his excitement, he’d forgotten to take his heart medication. But still, what a fabulous exit!
    If I had to select my own time and method of death, I would choose this particular fashion to depart the mortal coil. Can’t you just see my obituary?
    Ms. Emmeline Beaufort Taylor (women’s rights activist and campaigner for Human Rights and World Peace), age ninety-eight and spinster by choice, departed this life while cruising the Greek islands with her close, personal friend, Hans Schwarz (male model), age twenty.
    “She vas ze most beautiful woman in the world—ze best lover I ever had,” said the distraught Mr. Schwarz, as he sobbed over her grave.
    It is rumored that Ms. Taylor will posthumously receive the Nobel Peace Prize for her many humanitarian works.
    Of course, I was very sad about poor Johnny. I’d been his secretary for two years and had developed a tolerant fondness for the way he could never remember my name (he called me babe—he called all women babe). Yes, I remember well the affectionate way he would pat my butt whenever I forgot that he liked to do this and got too close when taking him coffee…
    So how can this possibly have any relevance to my romance with Adam? This is what happened next.
    It is the day of Johnny’s memorial service and all the staff at Cougan & Cray are expected to attend. Because Johnny was a prominent member of the community, it’s taking place at St. Thomas’s Church on Fifth Avenue (opposite Nine West). I am wearing a simple black shift dress (Jones New York), with a black blazer (also Jones New York).
    This is a very good look for me.
    The black brings out the blonde highlights in my short, artfully tousled hair. Plus, my grandmother’s pearls, at my neck and in my ears, enhance the creaminess of my skin. I’m also wearing my favorite shoes—Manolo Blahnik four-inchheels, to give me added height and to enhance my small but well-formed ankles.
    William Cougan, CEO, has ordered limousines to transport us all to the church as a mark of respect for the late Mr. Cray (one of the founding fathers of our esteemed company). These limousines will arrive in approximately three minutes. Nearly everyone else has gone downstairs and I have just discovered the most enormous rip in my pantyhose.
    I cannot attend a somber, serious service while inappropriately sporting a run large enough to accommodate the entire New York City Fire Department, and although I have emergency spares in my desk, I have no time to make a quick trip to the ladies’ room to change. My only options are to either (a) change at my desk (not good if some last-minute straggler walks by), or (b) slip into the late Mr. Cray’s office and do the deed in there.
    Plan B is good. I swiftly check the vicinity and slip inside, closing the door behind me.
    Just as I have my dress up around my waist and the new pantyhose half way up my legs, the door opens. I freeze as I see Adam in the doorway, and he freezes as he sees rather more of me than he expected. And then I remember the panties that I am wearing today. Tish gave them to me as a joke. They are (obviously) clean. They are also black, with large red letters that say PRESS THIS BUTTON , with an arrow pointing down in the unmistakable direction of my clitoris. These panties are my way of wishing good old Johnny a final bon voyage, since he was so very fond of my butt. But I hadn’t intended to share the joke with anyone else.
    So what do I do now? Do I apologize? Do I ask to be excused? Do I continue my mission as if nothing has happened? Do I wait for him to do the gentlemanly thing and leave? In the end I do nothing. I am like a statue, immortalized in this very unattractive pose, because my heart is pounding right out of my chest and I’m sure my whole body is flushing bright red.
    Instead of leaving, Adam smiles a wolfish smile as he gives me the once-over.
    “Hel-lo,” he says, as he leans against the doorframe