There's a story somewhere in here

There's this local journalist/columnist whom I admire. I've met her once. I've seen her more than once. She writes about her love/sex life a lot. The time I was introduced to her, at a midday work-related event, she was on her third champagne because the boyfriend she just split with was seen coming out of a Soho apartment building on a Saturday morning in last night's suit. Dejected, she got on her phone and informed us she just made a booty call. Sometimes I run into her in those types of situations she writes about. It's surreal. One night last week I saw her at this party. I was on my third champagne. I was being very jovial with my colleague, boss, a PR and our freelance proofreader. Odd combo now that I think about it. We were almost the last to leave. We got in the elevator with her and the guy she'd been talking to whom I think she just met. And I felt like a spy. A voyeur. Being John Malkovich. I watched as she cheek kissed him before he got out of the elevator on his floor. Heard her invite him out somewhere. Suggestively. Coolly. Door closed. Then we all went our separate ways.