There's something disquieting about having a secret admirer.

I walked in to work the Monday after Valentine's Day and found a brown paper package with my name on it. Inside, there was a romantic Valentine's card, again with my name, and with nothing else written on it anywhere. And a large, heart-shaped box of chocolates. I had a hunch that I recognized the handwriting, but I wasn't sure. And even if I had been sure, I wasn't sure what to do with the information. I was somewhat relieved to discover that the other two women who work on our magazine had gotten identical packages on Valentine's Day: whatever odd ritual was being played out probably wasn't romantic, and might not have much to do with me.

The secret admirer may be a cliche, but that doesn't mean I knew what to do with, or about, one. If it was the person I thought, I wasn't interested in him even to chat with, let alone for anything more serious, and wouldn't have been even if I'd been single. But what if I had been interested? Leave an anonymous note of my own on his desk? Walk over with a smile and offer him a piece of his own chocolate? There are no easy answers, because if he'd really been a secret admirer, I'd have had nobody to respond to.

Lacking any better idea, I took the candy home and shared it with Andy.

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