Close call

My candidate did not win yesterday.  Furthermore, the candidate who prevailed was, in the eyes of my fellow campaigners and me, the least desirable choice of the 3 remaining.

(Think:  George W. Bush of the Southie Democrats. On multiple intellectual levels.   And that's not meant as a compliment.)

I hit up the post-election gathering about 10:15, having had a church meeting to attend first.  I was glad I hadn't been there the whole time:  the mood was bleak.  Most folks had been drinking, hugging and commiserating since 7:30, and the stereo blasted heavy metal power ballads. 

After hugging and commiserating with Mike, I grabbed a Sam and a slice of congealed pepperoni pizza and sat down with a group of ladies.   Conversation had turned to the cuteness factor of someone's pet dog.  Soon, I got into a more involved chat with my immediate neighbor -- a woman my age, who I've known for a couple years but have never really known much about. 

Talk turned to our respective careers. 

She said:  she works in Copley Square. 
I said:  I did the same. 

She said: she works in educational publishing. 
I said:  I once went on several dates with a man in educational publishing who also worked in Copley Square. 

She asked: what his name was.
(Before I could answer)
She asked: if my date's name was (the real name of) The Editor. 

I hesitated.
(Because it, indeed, was.)
(Man of the loaner scarf.)

I asked:  if he were short, bald and Jewish.
She said: no.  Tall, blond.  Made New Jersey jokes.

I remembered: The Editor moved here from New Jersey.

(But said nothing more.)
(Wanting to take no more chances.)