I was a woman and I was single. What did that mean to my employers?

I

think I’ll give him another date.

I closed the door behind me, then stood on my tippy toes to peek through the window at the top of the door. I caught sight of the taillight on the edge of my peripheral vision. He stayed till I got in, good. Tante Rochel will be happy. My mother would be happy, too, but she’s in Cleveland, while I’m living in Brooklyn, for “shidduchim.”

The light was on in the front room, which meant that Tante Rochel was still up, most likely in the kitchen, and Uncle Leib was probably snoozing in the recliner in the living room. I took off my heels and tiptoed past him.

As I expected, Tante Rochel was sitting at the table, nursing a tea and doing a crossword puzzle. She greeted me as I entered.

“Went well?” she asked, putting down her pencil.

I shrugged my left shoulder. “Yeah.”

She smiled back, but not too deeply. It was only a second date, and when you’re 28, they don’t mean much.

“Call your mother, she’s waiting to hear from you,” Tante Rochel said. I nodded and started downstairs to the basement. Tante Rochel’s shoulders drooped; I think she wanted to hear more from me. But she’s not my mother, even if I’ve boarded in her basement for five years.

I took out my phone to call my mother, but a sudden exhaustion overcame me. I texted her instead.

Went well, gonna say yes. Talk to you tomorrow. Exhausted.

HE

had a nice time and would like to go out again. Does tomorrow night work? I read the shadchan’s text while I was at work the next day. Nice that he said yes, I thought. But presumptuous of the shadchan to assume I would, too.

Thank you, I had a nice time as well. I’m available Thursday night, not tomorrow. 8:00 please I texted back.

One change for the better when you’re an older single is fewer go-betweens. I spoke to the shadchan; he spoke to the shadchan. My parents were there for support, of course, but things were so much more efficient this way. Also texting shadchanim. Everything went so much faster.

I turned back to my emails. Nechi had sent out a farewell email to everyone at Hirsch and Becker. I was happy for her, though sad for me; I was losing my only single coworker. The rest were nice, but our friendship only went so far, and I got it, they were busy with their kids and husbands. And then there were men.

I got up to give myself a good cry in the bathroom. Walking down the hall, I heard a snatch of conversation.

“I got totally messed up in my salary,” Mr. Davidson, a new guy — he started three months ago — was saying.

I slowed down. He was talking loud enough that I’d be able to catch what he said next, and of course I wanted to hear it. There is something so yentish about salaries, and people are so secretive about it. There doesn’t even have to be company policy discouraging its discussion, people just don’t — except this guy.

“I was still in school, so they lowballed me. Had I started two months later, after graduation, I’d be making at least 5K more.”

I couldn’t hear the response, I was too far away. But Davidson’s voice carried to where I was, just at the entrance to the bathroom.

“Eighty.”

There was a water cooler right outside the bathroom, and I flipped the tap for the water to rush and clear my ears. Eighty? He just finished school, he didn’t have his CPA yet — and I was making $85,000. I was in a senior position, with seven years’ experience. I couldn’t have heard right. And he certainly wasn’t shortchanged. I’d started out at $50,000.

I needed to hear more. Skipping my self-pitying session, I walked over to Nechi’s desk. She wasn’t there, she was at my desk scribbling on a Post-it note. She started when she saw me.

“I was looking all over for you.”

“Yeah, I must talk to you.”