My name is Emily Pritchett. I'm married, forty-five years old, and my son recently left home for college.
In my younger years I was quite a beauty. I have dark, shoulder length hair, big blue eyes, pale skin and a busty hourglass figure. "You're so pretty," my husband once said. "It's like being married to Snow White!" Phillip hasn't said anything like that in a long time. These days, we go months at a time without sex and it's only missionary style, lights off. He barely looks in my direction when I get undressed. Sometimes I wonder if he's screwing one of the pretty young salesgirls who accompany him on business trips.
I blame myself. I've gained significant weight over the years and started to show my age in other ways. Sometimes I stand naked in front of the bathroom mirror and pick at my flaws: the slight sag to my heavy breasts, tummy pooch, muffin top hips, wide round rear end.
I've felt unsexy and unwanted for years.
***
I recently started a new job as an administrative assistant at a law firm near my home. I left the workforce after my son was born, but now that he's out of the house and my husband travels for work most of the year, there's less reason to be home.
So far the job has been great: low stress, flexible hours, and everyone is very friendly, *especially* a young lawyer named Tom. He stops by my desk several times a day to see how work is going and make sarcastic, quips, often at our coworkers' expense.
"Morning Em," he says one day, smiling. "Is the old man still working you to the bone?" One of his favorite gags is to pretend the kindly old attorney I report to, is secretly a harsh taskmaster or closet perv.
"No Tom," I tell him. "Mr. Potts has been very fair."
"Good," he says. "Let me know if the old man gets out of line and I'll take care of it."
He gives me a conspiratorial wink and wanders off. I can't help but chuckle, until I notice an older admin named Phyllis glowering in my direction. I blush bright red and return my attention to my work.
*This is how rumors get started,* I think.
There's a definite flirty tone to these exchanges, but I can't help myself. He's young and charming and undeniably good-looking, with sandy brown hair, three-day stubble and a lean cyclist's build. Most importantly, he gives me the type of attention I've been missing in my marriage.
I tell myself Tom Is just being friendly. He's closer in age to my son than me. There's a picture on his desk of his pretty young girlfriend. What could be possibly want from a chubby middle aged mom?
***
On the Friday of my first week on the job, the company holds a happy hour to welcome me and a few other newcomers to the firm. Normally I wouldn't go; big crowds make me shy. But Philip is on another one of his trips and the idea of spending the night watching TV in the big empty house isn't very appealing. Besides, Tom keeps urging me to come along.
"You have to go," he says. "You're practically the guest of honor!"
"I don't know ... I'm not much of a drinker ..."
"Just one drink, Em."
"Fine," I tell him. "Just *one* drink."
The happy hour is at a cocktail lounge not far from the office. It's casual Friday, so I'm dressed in dark blue jeans and a v-neck sweater that I haven't worn in years.Maybe twenty of my coworkers are in attendance when I arrive. I order a white wine spritzer and mingle with the other admin, who are all very nice. I spot Tom through the crowd a few times, sitting with a group of other young lawyers. I smile and wave to him but stay on my side of the room. I remember the older admin frowning at me and don't want to give people a reason to talk.
I end up having such a good time that I order a another drink and stay much later than planned. By now, most of my colleagues have left and I'm feeling a bit tipsy. I decide to drive home while it's still safe.
I settle up my tab and visit the ladies room before I go. Tom is waiting for me in the dark hallway outside the restrooms. He looks angry.
"You've been avoiding me all night," he says.
"No, Tom ... I thought I should mingle with people I haven't met yet ..."
"You said you'd join me for a drink."
"I really can't ..."
"You promised."
I'm stunned by Tom's bullying demeanor. It is so out of character for him to behave this way.
"I ... I didn't know ..." I stammer. "Okay ... I guess I can have one more ..."
Tom gives me a wide, wolfish grin, like he's been putting me on.
"Great. Let me introduce you to the boys."
***
He leads me to his table and introduces me to the group. All men, including a few faces I recognize from around the office. Like Tom, they are all in their mid-twenties and blandly handsome in the same clean cut, catalogue ready way. The table is strewn with empty beer bottles and shot glasses. There's a raucous frat house atmosphere to the group and I'm a bit uncomfortable, realizing I'm fifteen or twenty years older than anyone else at the table.
I take a seat beside a muscular, olive complexioned young lawyer and Tom pushes a glass toward me. It's an enormous goblet of Windex-blue liquid.
"I took the liberty of ordering for you," he says.
"You said one drink!"
"That is one drink." He gives me a wink.
"I can't finish this."
"Just drink what you can," he says. "Try it. You'll like it."
I playfully roll my eyes and take a sip. The drink cold and surprisingly sweet.
***
Tom and I chat for a long while. The conversation revolves around me and my interests. He asks a lot of questions about my family life and particularly my son. He asks to see a picture. I pull one up on my phone and hand it to him. I'm a bit embarrassed to realize the picture is from a beach vacation many years earlier and I'm wearing a modest two-piece in the shot. Tom studies the photo for a moment, then hands the phone back to me with a grin.
"Good looking boy," he says, with a wink.
The others men appear to be engaged in some form of heated sports debate and mostly ignore us. At one point, I catch the swarthy one staring at my chest. I've been slouched in my seat and showing more cleavage than I intended. I sit up a little straighter and wait for a moment when no one is looking and discretely readjust my top.
***
Later, the waitress asks if I'd like another drink? I'm astounded to see that I've finished it the entire goblet. I check my watch. It's well pst midnight. I can't remember the last time I ever felt this drunk.
"No, thank you. It's getting late ... I have to get home ..."
"You sure, Em?" Tom asks. "How about one more for the road?"
A few of the men chuckle.
Are they laughing at me?
"N-no, thank you ... " I stammer, dropping a new bills on the table to cover my tab. "I really have to be going. Good night."
I stand to leave and immediately go lightheaded. I steady myself against the table. All the glasses rattle. A beer bottle rolls over and shatters on the floor. The men all hoot and laugh. One of them shouts, "Mom is flagged!"
I'm mortified. A busboy scurries over to clean up the mess. I mutter apologies until Tom puts his hand on the small of my back and steers me to the door.
"I'm so embarrassed ..." I moan, out in the parking lot.
"Don't worry about it Em. They've seen worse," Tom says. "But you're in no condition to drive. We'd better take you home."
The olive complected man and a tall, thin ginger have followed us out of the bar. I mumble something about calling an Uber but they ignore it and lead me toward a black Hummer at the back of the lot.
***
The ginger, who turns out to be named Darren, drives. Clyde, the muscular guy, rides shotgun. I sit in the backseat with Tom.
I give the driver my address. He plugs it into his GPS and soon we're driving down a country highway. But instead of making the turnoff toward my house, he pulls into the office park where we work.
"Forgot something in the office," Tom says, as if reading my thoughts. "Just be a minute."
The lot is empty at this time of night. Darren drives us to a spot that faces the duck pond at the far end of the lot and kills the ignition.
