Jean stood over my shoulder, reading the last few sentences of ‘Education Is Our Children’s Future’, a column I had written for this month’s issue of Glam-O.

“That was really moving, Andy,” he told me, “But they’re never going to go for it.” He tossed the paper aside and shrugged his shoulders at me.

I sighed in frustration. I had been working at New York’s best selling omega magazine for four years now and was still writing How To columns about things I couldn’t care less about. “I want to write about something that matters,” I whined to Jean. “Enough of this ‘How To Burn Belly Fat in 24 Hours’, or ‘How To Please Your Alpha In 5 Steps’; I want to write about things that matter.”

“Keep working hard Andy, it will come.” Jean told me upliftingly.

I gave my head a shake, rearranging my silky blond curls. “I busted my ass in grad school, I should be able to write about politics or foreign affairs. Something my children could learn from.” It wasn’t so much that I didn’t enjoy writing bouncy cliché articles for Glam-O, it was fun, and I was good at it. It was more that I didn’t like the message I was sending to the children reading it.

Children are important to me, they always have been. I had always wanted one of my own but between work and more work I had no time to find myself an alpha to conceive with. My writing acted as an outline for me to feel connected in some way to the youth of today. If I couldn’t raise a child of my own, at least I could make a slight impact through my writing, which was better than nothing at all.

“You’ll get there,” Jean promised again, then returned to this desk space beside mine. “On the bright side, look what came for you!” He began waving an envelope around high in the air.

“My tickets!” I gushed. “The NBA finals baby! I knew all that shameless flirting with that new sports reporter would pay off,” I winked at Jean.

“As long as I don’t have to come.” He joked. I knew better than to invite him anyways, omegas that worked at Glam-O weren’t really the basketball kind of people.

Luis, another writer at Glam-O, approached our desks, he was so short I could barely see him poke his head over the top of the cubical divider, “Hey guys, don’t forget, meeting in Lane’s office in 30!”

We smiled in acknowledgement and watched him skip away. Jean turned to the empty desk beside him. “Wait, where’s Michael?”

I rolled my eyes, “Do you think he’s wallowing?”

Jean joined me in an eye roll, “Of course he is.”

I checked my watch, “I’ll go,” I told him and swung out of my chair.

“Hey, take some of these,” he handed me a bag of product testers, with cologne, eye cream, and a set of cashmere socks. “That might help.”

“Thanks,” I took the bag and scurried out of our office as quickly as possible to retrieve Michael from the confines of his apartment.

Every other week Michael would get himself into a relationship. He would preach to everyone that this alpha was the one. Then when it didn’t work out, Jean and I would be left to pick up the pieces for him and make sure he didn’t do anything too dramatic. This time it was my turn to drag him out of bed and into work so he didn’t get fired.

When I arrived, Michael answered the door wearing a grungy-striped pajama set not even my grandpa would wear. His face was red and puffy from crying and he held a box of tissues as snot dripped out of his nose.

“Don’t bother Andy,” he grunted and regressed back into his gloomy apartment. I followed behind him opening up curtains and picking up snot rags.

He crawled back into bed. “Why does this always happen to me!” Tears rolled down his cheeks.

I sat on the edge of the bed. “Listen, you can’t let this one get to you, Michael. You’re a smart, independent, sexy omega! Any guy would be happy to have you. I’m not letting you lose your job over this, now get up.” I pushed the bag of product testers in front of his face.

He poked through the bag pulling out the socks, “Are these cashmere?” he asked pitifully as he felt them between his fingers.

“Yes,” I smiled.

He threw his arms around me with gratitude, “Thank you, Andy, you’re the best.” He reluctantly got out of bed as I pressed him for time and hustled him out the door.

We hailed a cab and slid into the back seat. I looked at poor Michael, his adorable freckled face slightly red still from crying but his auburn hair was now combed and tidy, and he looked fresh in a crisp pinstriped suit with an emerald tie.

“So, you want to talk about it?” I asked empathetically.

“No,” he snorted. Then immediately broke down into tears, sobbing uncontrollably. “He was just so amazing, we had a connection like no other!”

“Michael, you only knew him a week.”

“I know, but it was the best week of my life.” He sighed dramatically. “You know the first time we had sex, I cried.”

“You cried?” I asked horrified.

“Yes, and then I told him I loved him. He didn’t say anything, but I know he felt it too.” Michael was serious and I couldn’t believe it. Even with my own screwed up attempts to date I knew better than that.

The cab came to a stop in front of Glam-O’s revolving door. “Come on, get yourself together, we have a meeting in five minutes.”

We stepped out of the cab and I passed Michael another tissue. “I just don’t get it, Andy,” he dragged his feet out of the car and shuffled pathetically into the building.

I took a deep, slightly annoyed, but slightly sympathetic breath, “Michael, you’re a catch! But if any omega did the kinds of things you consistently do in relationships, every alpha would be running for the hills.”

“Yeah right! No one would run from you, Andy, with your platinum blond perfect curls and your perfectly lean athletic figure. You’re every alpha’s dream omega.”

We rode the elevator up to the 15^th floor. “How many times have you called him since the split?”

“Including the times I hung up after he answered?”

I shook my head with bemusement. I wasn’t sure How To even begin getting through to him.