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funeral of her lover. That much she could do for him. There would be nothing else as important, nothing as eternal, as going through this process of burying her lover. Pam Smith was going to make it possible for her to have the experience, to be part of it—at least she said she would.
    Sandra put a tea bag in a cup. She reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a plastic container of orange-frosted rolls she picked up the day before at Zabar’s. Was it really just yesterday? Saturday morning? Her life had changed overnight. The small tasks of her daily routine were comforting. She arranged a sliced apple on a plate and took her tea and roll to the small table set up in her sitting area, positioned so she could look out the window at the alley while she ate. The disadvantage to being on the ground floor was the lack of view. But seeing the way the sunlight shown on the brick and the tree of heaven, with her bird feeder in it swaying in the breeze, made her feel a sense of peace. Most things were out of her control. She was at the mercy of everyone else. Just go with the flow.
    She had made a poor choice. Getting involved with Jack was wrong and she knew it, resisting it from the onset. So did he. They should have taken drastic steps, asked for a transfer for her, anything to get them out of the same office. But the chemistry and the tug between them was more than either of them could ignore. They were human, after all. Flesh. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. They didn’t even flirt with each other. It transcended that sort of behavior. Now she realized that he was just lonely. He was at that dangerous age. He should have moved home with his wife or insisted she come to the city with him. It would have been worth it to protect their marriage.

    She first saw him three years before. Prior to that, she was working in the Bronx office. It was closer to her home than Wall Street. She could walk if she allowed enough time, but usually hopped on the subway. She loved working far uptown. The shopping and the restaurants were fabulous. She tried so many different ethnic foods. Picking up something unusual for dinner each night got to be a habit, so much so that she actually put on weight, her straight figure taking on curves.
    When she was summoned to the Wall Street office, she assumed someone there wanted her to do a temporary research project that couldn’t be done from the outside. Jack was in his office talking on the phone. She was standing in the hall just a foot from his door. Peter Romney was talking loudly to her, explaining what he needed from her. Jack walked to his door, smiled at her, and closed it. She wished Peter had shut up.
    “Do you think we could go someplace and sit down while you tell me about the project?” she said. “I want to take notes.” He led her to an empty office and, pointing at the desk, said, “Welcome to Wall Street.” It was a long commute downtown. She had to leave the house earlier than before, giving herself an hour to get downtown and then walk to the building. The atmosphere wasn’t the same down there. It was darker, as the surrounding buildings stood tall around their office, blocking the sunlight. She really didn’t like it. Maybe having the interest of a man helped her settle into her new position. She may have used Jack to feel less lonely, less unhappy about her new digs.
    It started innocently enough. They just worked together. He never asked her to lunch, never flirted with her. He seemed eager to get home on Fridays, occasionally going midweek. Sandra wasn’t attracted to him either. She had never dated an older man and he was twice her age.
    And then her parents died within a few days of each other. He was so nice to her, so concerned, that they began talking and a real friendship developed. It wasn’t a father-daughter relationship, although there were enough years between them that it could have been. They were just coworkers.
    Last year, Jack’s