It’d been a week since I’d gotten a message from Betsy. The less I heard from her, ironically the more I thought of her. I hoped she was okay, but I knew calling her would only instigate emotional confusion -- for us both. I was beginning to miss that immediate sexual tension.

While I knew I wanted Shirley completely, I still desired that unsure anticipation of sex, especially from Betsy. Just the thought of her and I tingled. I wondered if Shirley felt the same way, I mean about Betsy, as I did. Am I the safe, easy going, normal girlfriend that Shirley gave up sexual fantasies for? Quickly my heart grew, drawing from inside me nervous short breaths.

I loved Shirley and she loved me and isn’t that what we’re all looking for? But I wanted to be both for Shirley--- a girlfriend and a sexual fantasy. All of a sudden it was clear to me, a trip to a lingerie department was absolutely necessary.

Being broke, I realized the lingerie department at K-mart was going to have to suffice. K-mart was no different than it was twenty-five years ago when I remember wandering down the aisles with my sister Jamie while our parents perused over TV’s, stereo, and whatevers. We’d take turns walking the lines of the yellowing tiled floors and while Mom and Dad focused on a good deal, we’d steal a cart and push each other down empty lanes. But today I was alone and when I thought of Jamie I smiled and I wondered if her kids played the same way. I missed her and I hoped she missed me.

Lingerie in Kmart is definitely not Victoria Secret. You have to be creative and want cute things as opposed to sensuous because sensuous is not part of the K-mart sell. I actually thought Shirley would like “cute” better. When I looked at the racks, I saw a line of cotton panties with fifty or so pink roses. Perfect, with a tee-shirt to match.

Heading up to the cash register, something caught my eye and with sudden determination, I headed over to the coat rack. I couldn’t believe what I saw: my flair coat with the fur collar design that I DESIGNED was on a hanger with Ellen Levee’s name on the inseam. There it was, an exact replica from my art show last December! Pressure of tears pursed my eyes.

At home I searched for Ellen’s number because I was incited to do something. Not having found the number, I called information and got her office address downtown. I would deal with this face-to-face. Nobody was going to get away with this shit again!

Getting back in the car I remembered Hillary and wondered if I should skip Ellen for today and head for the hospital. No, I knew Hillary would want me to capitalize on my rooted anger and determination to face this thief.

The warehouse was like any I’ve seen with lanes of sewing machines, filled with the speeding hands of garment workers--- some talking, some concentrating--- all minorities.

Across the way, I could see Ellen in her glassed-in office, sitting at her computer wearing a black Chanel suit. I didn’t stop to knock before I walked in.

“Fran, good to see you. Check this out,” she said, averting her eyes back to the computer screen.

I quickly scanned her screen--- seeing a generated drawing of a bathing suit. “Who’d you steal that from?!” I demanded.

“Fran, I called you. I did all that I could to get you involved but you weren’t interested. What I did was totally legal.”

“Legality doesn’t make it right.”

“In my mind, it’s right; what you want to believe is your business. Look out at the floor, Fran. I keep 105 people employed. They work nine to five, and if they’d rather work through lunch they can leave at four. I give them health care, maternity leave, and I make sure their kids are in decent day care.”

“That is inconsequential to stealing.”

“I didn’t steal Fran. I offered it to you and you flaked, why? Because all of this is too real for you. You’d rather sit around in day-to-day jobs, complaining that you’re under appreciated which is fine, if that’s what you want to do, but don’t come in here and criticize me. I’m making a huge difference in those women’s lives and their families.”

“Well, ah...” I felt like an asshole. Was I becoming a thirty-something whiner?