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A Lousy Romantic

A Lousy Romantic

Where are all the single men?

I asked myself this question only a few days into my new job when I looked around and noticed that nearly everyone was married. And the ones who weren’t were, you guessed it, female.

Not surprisingly, considering my advanced age and all, my peers are all mothers to many multitudes. And they aren’t even all religious.

“Want to hear a romantic story?” asked one of my new co-workers, my age exactly and the mother of four.

It was lunchtime and we were all huddled around a couple of desks, eating our salads.

Soon she launched into a detailed story, the punch line of which was that she, an Israeli, met her husband, also an Israeli, on the train in New York. By chance. Way back when they were in their early 20s.

It really was a romantic story and I hated her for it.

“You can write about that,” another co-worker suggested, but I didn’t want to write about “that.” I wanted to write about my own romantic love story. And not one that keeps ending in disappointment.

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