She recognized the man from the countless hours of late night infomercials she had watched when insomnia was at its worst.  He sold workout equipment, exercise videos, and later, when his pecks began to sag and sales undoubtedly dropped, he sold juicing machines.  Rarely, if ever, was Margaret star struck.  In the time she had spent married to Randal and going about as his arm candy, he had introduced her to countless celebrities.  None had inspired this curious sensation in the pit of her stomach.  Like she knew the man on a personal level; had been there watching as the feathers of his side burns went from a reddish bronze to an ashen gray.  

Like George Clooney, she thought.  Then, inexplicably, was drawn to the huge window, ignoring her guide, who held up short of...

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