Two of my workmates are falling in lurve. They are doing it secretly but because I'm good at spotting these things I've noticed their special self-satisfied glow, an unexplained trip where they just happened to be going to the same place at the same time, a cryptic aside after a raucous party. And because I'm a shocking gossip and a dreadful bully I wangled confirmation out of A Person Who Shall Remain Unidentified.
I'm a little jealous. I recognise the signs but I've forgotten what it feels like - the tingly, exciting, anything can happen joy, when work becomes a place of anticipation and stolen glances. Sure, I know it will all end in tears by the photocopier and the careful mapping of safe routes out of the building but in the meantime, gosh!, they're revelling in that shiny sexual thrill and the risks of newly minted intimacy.
Most days I stick to the party line that the love Al and I share after 14 years and two kids and a mortgage and two dogs and a cat and multiple moves and some break ups and infinite farts on the sofa and the leaving of dirty hankies on the drinks cabinet and used floss on the bathroom bench (I know - we're disgusting) and the buying of tampons and snarky comments about who does more housework is a deeper and more fulfilling love. But this morning, after walking to work listening to the type of love songs that tell of anticipation and desire, and seeing the Secret Couple get out of a shared car and make their way into the building by separate entrances (oh, I see all - my office looks over the carpark), I kind of want to step out of this life, just for a day, and into my other life where all that romance is possible again.
Then again, how hard is it to find a man who'll let his own coffee go to lukewarm while he looks after the girls so that I can leave the house without buttery handprints all over my shirt? Now that's romance.