The Shiksa Syndrome: A Novel by Laurie Graff

bathroom, seeing Andrew waiting for the elevator. “Happy V-Day!”
    “Same to you,” he says. Not wearing a coat, he’s just running downstairs to Starbucks for his morning fix. He mimes holding a cup and taking a drink. “Want?”
    “Have. Thanks.” Walking by him, I wave, pausing in front of PR With A Point’s front doors to swipe my ID to get in.
    “Hey. How’s Bread Guy?”
    “Cool,” I answer, holding the door open with my back in order to face him.
    “Cool. Want to double?” he asks. “Selina wants tips on being a Jewess. What do I know?” Andrew steps into the elevator, typing on an imaginary keyboard to indicate we will e-mail to discuss. But once the elevator doors close, so does that discussion. That double-date among the last things I need.
    “There was a delivery for you, Aimee,” says Tanisha, our receptionist, when I walk back in.
    “Oh thanks, but I got it.”
    Bright and early, first thing, Office Services delivered a dozen red roses from Josh to my office. The card read, “A Valentine Tasting Menu Awaits! 7:30 tonight. Pick you up in front of your office building.” Josh may not know the real me, but even this version doesn’t leave the office at six. I called him immediately to thank him. And I will give him my gift, Godiva heart-shaped dark chocolates, in person tonight.
    “No,” says Tanisha. “Not that gift. Another one.”
    “You sure?” I bet anything Josh sent another dozen roses. He strikes me as the type that can go over the top.
    “Oh, I’m sure,” she says. “This one wasn’t through a messenger service. The guy hand-delivered it himself. The Messenger Center called for you to go downstairs and pick it up. But the guy didn’t want me to call you. Office Services went and got it. They probably brought it by your office.”
    Peter? Ohmygod. Peter came here? What if I had just gone with Andrew and ran into him? What if he’d come up here and seen my red roses? What if he’d seen my red hair? No. He wouldn’t do that. He’s not thinking of me. It’s not for me. It must be one of the other girls. Maybe Tanisha is wrong.
    But, alas, Tanisha is right. Next to the roses, front and center on my desk, is a package from Peter. I recognize his handwriting, my name written on the envelope of the card. I open it. It simply has a picture of a heart sketched on the front, one word printed inside:
Happiness.

    Aim,
    It’s not the same without you. But I see, now, it couldn’t stay the same. Trying to make changes. Hope you’re doing well.
    Happy Valentine’s Day!
    Peter & BAXTER

    I open the package—wrapped in the front page of today’s
New York Times
and tied with a red ribbon—and find a square wood frame. The words
Bow Wow
are engraved in four different fonts along each of its sides. Inside is a photo of Baxter, wearing a red bandana around his neck, a pumpernickel bagel sticking out of his mouth. It is so dear, I’m moved to call Peter. Except my cell rings and it’s Josh.
    “Hi, there,” he says with the confidence of a man who feels he has done well. And he has. The roses come from an exclusive Madison Avenue florist nearby. Not to compare, but the arrangement outdoes all the other dozens I have seen today. Still, my eyes shift back to the photo of Baxter. The note from Peter.
    “Aimee, you there?” asks Josh.
    “Yes,” I say. “I am.”
    “Good. Me, too.”
    And suddenly it becomes clear.

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