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knew I should eat more fresh . . .
    Just then, something strange happened. Greg’s urgent fingers had managed to find just the right spot, and my worries about the day suddenly vanished. All I could think about was how good his fingers felt. I let out a little moan. Greg smiled. To him, a moan was the equivalent of a standing ovation. He continued on, thus encouraged, and I applauded his efforts.
    Bravo, bravo! I thought, as Greg kindly inspired the day’s fourth orgasm.

AVERY
    Possibility
    D riving home from work, I studied the people in the cars beside me. The woman with her outreached arm, a cigarette dangling from her fingertips; the teenage boy who looked so young, his entire future ahead of him, a gamut of possibilities; a good-looking guy in his early thirties. I imagined what would happen if he rear-ended me—gently of course. We’d get out of our cars. He’d be all concerned. I’d say, “Don’t worry, what’s one more scratch. There is no need to get the insurance agencies involved.” He’d be so moved by my kindness that he’d say, “Let me at least take you to dinner.” I’d agree, and we’d go to a fabulous restaurant where we’d laugh, I’d say witty things, he’d say intelligent and sweet things, and we’d live happily ever after. He wouldn’t be rich, merely comfortably wealthy. He’d have a nice home and car and like to travel. He’d tell me I was beautiful.
    Or maybe a tire on my car would blow and I’d be stranded along the side of the road. He’d pull over to help me. He’d be a professional of some sort, but despite his white collar, he’d know how to fix my car because mechanics was his hobby as a teenager (maybe he paid his way through college working at a garage during the summer). While he worked on my car, we’d talk. It would turn out we had a lot in common. We’d laugh. I would be struck by his amazing smile. He’d ask me out. He’d take me on a picnic by a creek in a forest. We’d drink wine and eat grapes, Brie and bread, and gourmet chocolate. We’d live happily ever after.
    Gideon was not the man for me; it just took me a few years to figure that out. There were lots of single men out there. There was a world of possibility.
    Now I just needed a date.
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    T he story of Gideon and me might sound very romantic if you didn’t know the ending.
    We met five years ago when I was helping facilitate a focus group. Participants earned forty dollars for an hour of their time. They watched a twenty-minute pilot of a sitcom, discussed what they liked or didn’t like for thirty minutes, and then filled out a profile of themselves.
    It was unusual for a lowly teleresearcher to assist with a focus group, but my manager at the time thought I had potential. (Unfortunately, she was fired under mysterious circumstances, and with her went all my chances for advancement.)
    When gorgeous Gideon walked in, I stared at him with the fawning gaze of a groupie meeting her rock star idol for the first time. Then I dropped the entire stack of handouts I’d been holding. Fifteen years of dance training and in the presence of a good-looking guy, every shred of grace I’d developed vanished. The papers billowed out around me and I scrambled to collect them. Gideon helped me pick them up.
    â€œHere you go,” he said. He had long, dark hair and a disarmingly sexy smile.
    â€œThank you,” I mumbled.
    While the pilot was shown, there was blessedly little I could do to further embarrass myself. I sat in my corner behind the focus group members, trying to hide my smile. It had been such a long time since a man had gotten my heart racing, and I rather liked it.
    During the discussion portion, when it was his turn to comment on the program, he talked about how the women in the sitcom were simpering idiots and Hollywood needed to come up with some stronger roles for