Glowing with the fake tan of love

This woman I work with--she's about 30, I guess--told me that she fell in love last weekend. Earlier in the day, while I waited for my timesheet to print, I'd asked her how her weekend went. She paused, then said, "Great," with an inflection and a strange wispy and beaming expression that immediately made me think: whoa, she got laid.

Sure enough, in the breakroom later, this guy Pat was giving her a hard time because he said she was glowing with love; she insisted it was actually fake-tan lotion. "Wait," I interjected. "Did you fall in love over the weekend?"

"Yes," she replied, "at least for now." Me and my coworker Lan both made a face. She shrugged and started talking about how sleepy she was because she was taking melatonin. I had other suspicions.

While she was telling us this, she started stretching, at which point she bent over at the waist, while talking to me, exposing quite the glimpse of her somewhat copious, although not particularly enticing, bosom. Ah, I thought, conflicted whether to look or not, those pale melons belong to another man. I refilled my water mug and went back to my boring-ass job.

What kind of picture goes with that story? Oh . . .