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She made a beeline for where decorative knobs would be if this was the store she usually shopped at. Halfway there, Dillon popped out of one of the aisles. Oh my God, it’s really him. She smiled. He smiled too. Before she could open her mouth to say, “Hello, don’t you teach yoga at Novocorp,” he passed her and called out, “Sorrel. I found the wallpaper borders. This way.” A petite blonde turned around. She was thin everywhere except at the pregnant bulge in front of her abdomen. “What do they have in green?” Dillon said, “Let’s look.” As they went off together, the world around Karen fogged. He was . . . married. Or at least deeply significantly-othered. And about to become a father. Karen ran out to her car and sat in it as the blood pounded in her head. She drove home in a daze, without the knobs, afraid to go back into Home Depot, afraid she’d run into Dillon and Sorrel again. When she got home she woke up her laptop and went to Dillon's picture. She even read the paragraphs about meditation. His name was in them twice. Now what? How could she do this? How could she feel this for him when it was so wrong? Sorrel, I’m sorry -- I’m so sorry. I’m in love with your husband -- er, partner, baby-daddy. No, no, I’m not. I’m infatuated with him. It’s just a crush -- he’s not at all my type. It was his fault really. She had never even wanted to be there. He was the one handing out dandelions. And it didn’t mean anything that he gave one to her. He was handing them out to everyone. It was a stupid hippie new age stress reliever, during an even stupider team building exercise. But the trouble was, on some level it was still a man giving a woman a flower. And deep inside her, in the dark recesses, a romantic gesture detector had rumbled back into life after lying there all creaky and rusted from not receiving any input for a very long time. And so when this happened, just a little thing with barely the potential of registering -- the detector had gone wild. “I’ll take it!” it said, “I’m not too proud to take this.” One stupid weed, or rather, one stupid, slightly wilted weed stem drooping over a paper clip container, had unlocked something. Something that wasn’t letting her lock it back up again.
He taught two classes, the other at one pm. Then he would roll up his mat, and go into the building. Around 1:45 on the fourth day, Karen went to see Myron, whose office had a window on the opposite side of the building. After all, why shouldn't she? It wouldn't hurt to remind him of his upcoming performance review. Over Myron’s shoulder, she watched Dillon come out to the parking lot and get in his car, which -- surprise, surprise -- was a yellow Volkswagen Beetle. She wondered if she went out to get a sandwich to bring back at 1:43, if she would see Dillon in the lobby. She left Myron's office determined to try it. Most days it worked and she would leave the building just as Dillon was leaving. Each time they would smile at each other. When the weather was bad, she wouldn’t see him at noon, because he’d be holding his classes in the fitness room. Then she would pull up his picture on her computer. She figured it would be safe if anyone caught her, since it was the Stress Bester page. They’d just think she was looking for ways to increase productivity for her team by relieving stress. She tried doing a Google search. Besides the Stress Bester site, the only other Dillon Oglethorpes that came up were a podiatrist in New Mexico, and a woman in England whose last name was Dillon-Oglethorpe. And every morning, when she sat down, she picked up the next batch of fallen tufts and played loves me, loves me not. The stem got more and more wilted, and then more and more dried up. Until the day, when only one tuft was left on the stem. Carefully she went through the tufts that had fallen off and threw them away. Loves me, love me not, loves -- As she got to the last one on the desk, she said, “He loves me.” She looked at the lone tuft left on the stem. He loves me not. Her lower lip trembled, as she tried to swallow the knot in her throat and blink back the tears. She screamed at herself inside her head. What’s wrong with you? Loves me -- loves me not, it’s just a superstition. And this shouldn’t even count. Because you’re supposed to do it with a daisy. Not a dandelion. Why didn’t she go after someone available? Like Gary, the slightly pudgy, slightly balding guy in the condo down the street from hers. Always meant to, always put it off, too many late nights at the office. Later that day, Rory came in and picked up a folder on her desk. When he left she discovered another dandelion tuft on the edge of the desk halfway between the paper clip holder and the wastebasket. Had it floated back after she threw it away? If so, she’d already counted it. Which meant it was still he loves me not. But what if it had dropped off the stem and she hadn’t noticed and she hadn’t counted it yet? Then the tuft on the stem could still be he loves me. She picked up the tuft and stuck it in her center desk drawer. She couldn’t throw it away, not till she figured out which one it was. Two days later, she noticed after both of Dillon’s yoga sessions that day, his students came up to shake hands, or slap him on the back, or hug him. Had the baby arrived? Sorrel hadn’t looked that far along. When Karen went down to lunch, he smiled at her as usual, but then opened his mouth and closed it to smile again. This was her chance. To say, “Hi, I’m Karrin. We met at the Team Building session last month?” The moment passed and so did she. Had he wanted to speak to her? She waited in line at the Sub place to put in her lunch order. Was it wrong to smile at him? Just be friendly, no strings attached? But would it stop there? Would she start cruising the cross-town Home Depot every Saturday hoping to see him in the wallpaper aisle? Stalking him through piles of rolled up yoga mats?
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