I won't say I've given up on the idea of marriage or even the idea of a committed partner but as I get older my prospects seem less bright. This is not a new story. So many of the popular magazines have run a similar statistic: a woman my age has more chance of dying in a terrorist bombing than of getting married. Are we to understand that the juxtaposition of this pair means that marriage becomes the same as dying in a terrorist bombing? Who would want to under such circumstances.

I want to tell you a story of a time when crime and love came together. The crime came first, love came after. This happened some time ago, almost ten years. I'm not in the same office I occupied then, nor do I have much reason to pass by its door. A friend recently hired at my old firm got my old office. Visiting him last week brought back all of the memories.

I was sitting at my desk, working, again, through lunch. I had, at the time, the distinction of being the highest billing attorney in the firm. Partnership came no faster. I had to leave and go out on my own for that. The older men thought of me as some kind of dray horse and I supposed with my severe haircut and tailored suits, I might be appraised in less than flattering terms if those terms were feminine at all.