Free Slightly Engaged by Wendy Markham Page B

addiction to food and maintained a healthy weight for a couple of years…but I’m still hopelessly addicted to cigarettes.
    I drop the pack onto my desk and stare at it, wondering whether I can actually—
    “Tracey? Got a minute?”
    Wow. Mike has poked his head into my cubicle like a genie who’s been summoned in the puff of a white lie to Will.
    “Sure. How’s it going, Mike?”
    And why are you still here?
    When he returned from his two-week honeymoon, Carol ever so gently reminded him that he needs to start looking for another position elsewhere. You know, call me crazy, but I’m not convinced he got the message.
    Neither was Carol, because she reportedly mentioned it again in so many words before she left on vacation.
    I really think she needs to use just two words: “Leave now.”
    But until she says that, I suspect Mike will continue to show up every day in his little suit and tie to do—well, what seems like busywork to me.
    What else can he possibly be doing? His client interaction with McMurray-White and his corporate credit card have been cut off, he is no longer invited to meetings, and he never receives phone calls from anyone other than the Fembot he married.
    “Can you edit something for me, please?” he asks pleasantly, because he’s just the nicest boss ever. Which is most likely why he didn’t make it in this business.
    That, and the fact that he makes Jessica Simpson look like an intellectual.
    “Sure, Mike.” I wait for him to hand over his résumé, thinking it’s about time he asked me to whip that baby into shape. I’m so ready to roll up my sleeves and dig in.
    But he doesn’t hand over his résumé. He gives me a draft of some lame memo about something totally unrelated to the fact that he’s supposed to be looking for a new job.
    “Thanks, chief. No rush on that. Tomorrow’s fine,” he says, optimistic as Annie.
    Tomorrow?
    Doesn’t he realize that as soon as Carol gets back from her trip to Cabo San Lucas—which she’s expected to do today —she’s going to flat out fire him?
    At least, that’s what her secretary told Brenda last week.
    With any luck, I’ll be out to lunch with Buckley when she gets around to giving Mike the ax.
    Poor sap. Look at him, lingering in my doorway…
    Almost as if he wants to chat.
    I mask my pity with a tentative raised-eyebrow, closed-lipped smile.
    He returns it wholeheartedly.
    Until I ask, “So…how’s married life?”
    Exit wholehearted smile.
    I think he actually winces as he says, “Married life? It’s great.”
    Yeah, he’s about as convincing as Will McCraw would be, playing an NFL linebacker.
    “Did you get your wedding pictures back yet?”
    “No, but I’ll bring them in when I do.”
    Let’s just cross our fingers and hope that’s sometime this morning, shall we?
    Aloud I say, “I can’t wait to see them. Jack and I had a great time…”
    …when we weren’t drinking ourselves blind to avoid dealing with a silently stewing partner, or silently stewing over a partner who was drinking himself blind.
    “So when are you guys going to take the big plunge?” Mike wants to know.
    “You’ll have to ask Jack,” I say lightly.
    At least, I have every intention of saying it lightly, but it comes out sounding like a guttural Gestapo command.
    It’s a wonder Mike doesn’t salute as he responds, “I’ll do that—if I ever see him around. I never do anymore.”
    “Yeah, well…he’s been pretty busy. And I’m sure you have too.”
    “Nah, things are pretty quiet around here.”
    Yes, you idiot, because you’ve been fired for over a month.
    “Oh, I didn’t mean around the office,” I say. “I meant at home.” I’m all wink-wink-you-cunning-little-newlywed you.
    Ew. Somebody stop me.
    “I haven’t really been all that busy there, either.”
    I can’t say I blame you.
    He sighs heavily.
    Woe is Mike.
    I really feel so sorry for him, married to the diabolic Dianne and on the cusp of