Page 42 of My Boss

“Yup. Especially when I think about breastfeeding.”

“Jeez, I thought pregnancy was a total failure, but this…” I shake my head, staring at her breasts, which have gone from a B cup to a D in the last two months. Another reason never to have children. “I’m going for a smoke.”

“Just put something on. It looks to me like it’s going to snow,” she says, and the youngster is already reaching for her cleavage, tugging at her blouse.

“And to me, it looks like your clothes will get shredded in no time, unless your boobs explode first.”

“Ctrl+C, Ctrl+V. Ctrl+C, Ctrl+V.” I mechanically repeat the activity I have been doing for the past three hours in my mind (with breaks for coffee, pee and a few (dozen) cigarettes). I feel like banging my head on the keyboard of the company’s computer to the rhythm of this robotic activity.

Christ, how I hate this fucking Excel. And my moronic job. And the fact that I have to sit here on Christmas Eve.

For the hundredth time I curse the day I started studying finance and banking. For ten years I’ve been trying to figure out what drove me to choose such a dull major, and each time I’m forced to conclude it was my own stupidity for listening to my parents.

“And where else are you imagining you will study? That’s the only place you got in. Be glad that you managed to get into full-time studies at all.” I can hear my mother’s voice in my mind and see my father’s head nodding in agreement. At the very thought of having to spend Christmas Eve in their company, I feel like vomiting the carp I haven’t even eaten yet.

On top of that, my shithead older brother, who yaps on and on about his car consignment business, and his equally sicko wife who is a beautician and, whenever she sees me, harasses me to get a decent makeup job, will also be at that wonderful dinner.

I feel nausea coming on—the carp is about to be joined by pierogi.

Again they will ask me when will I get promoted, when will I find a husband, when will I get pregnant and when will I finally quit smoking. And I’ll answer all their questions with “NEVER—fuck you and get off my ass!” After which, I’ll storm out of their apartment like a bat out of hell and spend the rest of the evening at my place on the couch—sipping eggnog, smoking one cig after another and watchingHolidayfor the thousandth time staring at the divine Jude Law. Long live the spirit of family holidays. Ho, ho, ho, give me a gun!

I’m going to make another cup of coffee. After that, I will insert charts into the report I’ve been working on for a week.

The office is almost empty; everyone has long gone. It’s 3:20 p.m., and I’m catching up because Jan must have these moronic calculations on his desk today. Fucking maniac.

I can’t believe I’ve been working with him for a year now, and he still acts like I’m a stranger. No interaction, zero chill. He’s just as boring as the field he specializes in, and nothing will change that. Excluding weekends and a few days off, I see him every day and not once have I noticed him smile sincerely. A slight smirk at the corner of his mouth, at which his steel-gray eyes say, “Great, but I don’t want to talk to you,” and this is all he can manage to squeeze out of himself. I seem to have gotten to know him a little, but I still get the overriding impression that Jan Engler is an enigma.

At eight, when I arrive at the office, he is already here. When I leave, he is still working. A couple of times while returning from an evening out of town (and on a Friday!) I noticed through the bus window that a light was on in Jan’s office. The one and only light in the whole damn building. He’s like a robot. Not once have I seen him dressed other than in a suit and tie. Always with a perfectly shaved face, trimmed hair and shoes shining like baubles on the company Christmas tree. I really can’t understand what those stupid bitches in my office see in him.They send him those flirtatious smiles of theirs in the hallway, make goo-goo eyes at him in the employee lounge, or have overly loud conversations when he’s around. And he doesn’t give a damn about them. Jan Engler is a sick workaholic and has a calculator instead of a heart. What’s more, he makes me suffer. Because instead of getting effectively drunk at home right now, before a nightmarish family Christmas Eve supper, I’m sitting at work doing a dorky report.

“This is your fourth coffee, Maria.” Jan enters the employee lounge as the nectar of the gods is just oozing from the coffee machine directly into my favorite Chinese faience cup.

I glance at my boss as he reaches for his black mug.

“Do you count how many coffees I drink a day?”

“It’s hard not to count when you run to the restroom like a cat with a sick bladder after each one.”

I wince. I don’t know whether it’s because he’s criticizing me for no reason, or because he used a corny phraseological term as if he’d just learned it by heart, or maybe because, again, he smells so masculine and sensual that I feel like punching myself in the face to keep myself from sniffing it.

“Adding up the time lost in preparing coffees, trips to the toilet, not to mention going out for a cigarette,” elaborates Jan, “you lost an hour and thirty-eight minutes today,” he says slowly, in that low, controlled voice of his.

I look at him as if he’s gone mad right before my eyes. I also see a nutty stalker who calculates every minute of my working time.

“The report was supposed to be ready today, and it will be,” I reply, trying to make my tone sound calm. “There is no need to get stressed.” I take the cup and Jan places his cup on the coffee machine tray.

“What makes you think I’m getting stressed?” His voice is chilly.

I look at him and squint my eyes. Maybe I’ve actually exaggerated his stress level because I’ve never actually heard Jan raise his voice, get angry or even slam the door. Even when, after the annual review held in our conference room three weeks ago, the panel of directors did not accept him as a member of the Board, the only sign of his irritation was the frown on his face and the excessively springy step with which he left the office for the day.

The next day he showed up sporting that impeccable look of his, went back to work as if nothing had happened, and gave our entire department even more tasks to do: reports, charts, yada yada yada. Nutjob!

“Because your jaws are clenched. And your Adam’s apple is rippling, as if you just drank the coffee you are about to brew.”

“This is not a sign of stress,” he replies in a frigid tone and pushes the button on the coffee machine.

I don’t answer anything because what do you think I should answer, “You are wrong?”

So instead of flapping my tongue unnecessarily, I reach for the sugar, pour in two teaspoons, stir, then take the cup and leave without a word. After a second, however, I remember that I forgot to add milk. I turn around and bump into Jan.

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