1. REEMA

My day is going way better than usual because—guess what?—I think I'm being checked out by men.

Yes, men.

Two hotshot lawyers are sitting across from me in our building's cafeteria whispering to each other not as quietly as they think they are.

I don't work with them. They are strangers to me. This concrete slab of a building we're in holds many businesses. My boss, Mr.Davies, owns a consulting agency, FINAN Group, seven floors up from this communal lunchroom. These dapper and freshly suited lawyers are floor three. We're past the congested noon rush down here, so there's not a lot of people left eating. Still, at first, I didn't think they were talking about me. But then the blonde one said something like, "That's what a real woman looks like. Nothing like the fake shit in magazines."

Then the other one said, "Shhh…she'll hear you."

That's when it hit me. Could this actually be me? Could I be their real woman?

Of course, the "real" qualifier normally makes me rage, because what is a fake woman? It's skin, bones, and a beating heart living in all our chests, I promise. Then again, these two lawyers might be making some roundabout point and they are… cute? Checking again, I sneak a look which turns into a coy smile when I briefly meet the eyes of the younger Hugh Grant type. His chiseled jaw could dent ice, and the flopped over brown hair is boyishly endearingly. He smiles back at me, then continues his conversation.

"Real, bro. Not the photoshop they're selling us," he says, not-so-softly.

Amazing. Men are attacking photoshop, a tool dangerous to all women. Guess what I learned recently? One of the most common types of photoshop is smoothing away the clavicle bones of thinner actresses in magazines. So bigger or smaller, none of it is real. We're all being duped.

Looking around the lunchroom, I double-check and confirm I'm the furthest from any "perfection" found online. Might be the sweatshirt material of my oversized hoodie, or my pants that these fluorescent lights shame me into realizing should've been thrown out a long time ago. I'm talking fields and fields of lint. Outside of my outfit, my hair isn't the best. I'm keeping a signature bun-loop look these days. Frizzled tendrils of hair escape near my face as if they can't be bound—not because I have stubborn and passionate curls, but because cutting my own hair for the last two years hasn't been my biggest success.

Regardless, I tug my hoodie down, hoping to give it more shape.

"Ask her out," mumbles the blonde one, whose coiffed spiral-curls would soothe any OCD itch for repetitious perfection.

My Hugh Grant lawyer blushes. He blushes!

I would say yes if he asked me out. Even though I don't really know him, I would agree to go on a date with him. It's been so long since I've gotten flirty attention, and even longer since I've gone out for dinner or drinks… or any kind of recreational activity that costs money. When was the last time?

Two years ago. Everything was two years ago. You know that.

It's hard not to think of Harry, but I rub my palms over lumpy pants, reminding myself not to go there. Everything is fine or will be fine as long as I keep going. My life is not one I can pity, because I've put myself in this position. I did it all to myself. All I can do is push forward and try to earn back my redemption.

Anyway, my ears strain.

My lawyer is reserved and keeps asking his coworker if he should ask me out. I wish I could projectile-lob a big, flashy YES sign at him. You will find a soft landing with me, sir. Go forth and be brave. Your efforts will not be wasted, especially if you give me a chance to shave my legs. It's been a minute. Rigorous attention needs to be spent, unless you like natural hair growth, in which case, this Punjabi woman is your type!

His buddy jokingly punches his shoulder. My man's hair flops even more over that furrowed brow. "No, I can't," he mutters.

What? No! Ask me out! I need this!

My lunch is done, and I've been waiting at least ten minutes longer than usual in this seat across from them. Isn't that enough of a signal of my interest? Usually, I eat and run back to work in less than fifteen minutes. And the only reason I even have lunch, taking time away from winning clients and inching my work commissions higher, is because the cafeteria food is complimentary. Experience has taught me that if I don't eat in the middle of the day, I might not be eating later.

I find myself leaving my seat and inching over to their table.

Two pairs of widened eyes meet mine. Feeling like some looming creep, I pull my arms behind my back. To make myself smaller. Less threatening. Docile, maybe?

Their mouths have gone ajar. My face is flaming fiercely now, but blush isn't as visible against my medium-brown skin. Thank god, for what am I doing? This isn't me! Maybe if I squint really hard, I can remember the Reema Patel who thought she'd fall in love and grow old with someone. Maybe I'll remember life can be fresh and full of possibilities and that you can trust happy endings.

Thirty-five now, my experience has taught me differently. But could this be hope? That I'm coming back around to a more positive self?

Taking a soft breath, I smile. They both smile back at me, albeit in a confused way.

"You should be brave," I say, louder than I intended to speak. "Er—take a risk. You never know when the other person… well, when she's wanting you to ask her out, too." I'm chewing my lip. "Sorry, not that I mean to intrude. I just… heard you talk and thought you should know. My opinion."

"Thanks—" says the blonde lawyer.

"Reema."

In an absurd, out-of-body moment, we shake each other's hands. They are Colin (Hugh Grant) and Perry (curls).

A story to tell the kids. Such professionalism was experienced when I met your dad for the first time. Firm grip. Softer than expected hands, but signs of a good moisturizer. He respected me so much. Don't settle for less, children.

Colin looks directly at me, and my heart picks up speed.

"Okay. Yes. I'm doing it," he says. "But can you step to the side a bit?"