Page 81 of My Boss

“The cleaning lady?” He opens the cabinet to reveal tumblers arranged in three equal rows with pedantic precision, and takes out two.

“The person who does your laundry and cleans your place. Everything is so clean and fragrant.”

“I take care of my laundry and apartment myself.” He puts ice in a glass, pours vodka, tops it up with orange juice, then pours a measure of Scotch.

Oh boy, Jan is self-reliant. I take another look around the open space. How does he manage to clean such a large apartment by himself (total Mr. Clean) when he sits in the office from morning to evening? Not to mention washing and ironing shirts, of which he probably uses thirty a month because I doubt he wears the same one for more than a day.

“How big is your apartment?”

“Twelve hundred and ninety-two square feet.” He walks over and puts a drink in front of me.

“Wow. That’s a lot.” I lean back to see what’s outside the living room. “How many rooms?” I shift my gaze to him and catch his eyes gliding from my bare feet to my thighs…

“Living room, kitchen, two bedrooms, and a bathroom.” He takes a sip of the golden liquid and his gaze lingers at the hem of my skirt, which has ridden up far too high.

I get hot from the way he’s looking at me. A familiar and exciting tingling sensation spreads through my intimate area, and I feel a slight push on my bladder. I hope I’m not in for a UTI from walking around in the cold without my undies. Maybe it would be better not to hold it in. I should go to the bathroom.

“About the bathroom. Can I use it?”

He raises his eyes to meet mine. His pupils are dark, dilated. I am reminded of the moments we spent today in the office and the elevator.

“The second door to the left.” He points with his hand holding a drink to the hallway at the end of the living room.

“Thanks. I’ll be right back.” I take a big sip of my drink, jump off the stool, take my phone from the countertop and slip it behind my skirt belt, and head off in the indicated direction.

You would expect walking barefoot on tiles in winter not to be pleasant, but to my surprise, the ones in Jan’s living room are so warm that a pleasant shiver runs from my feet to my shoulders. Clearly, he has underfloor heating here. Well, after all, that’s how the other half lives.

I turn into the hallway and my attention is immediately drawn to the thick frames on the walls. Behind the glass of each of them hang rows of watches: one next to the other, evenly spaced like medals. There are dozens of them—pocket watches with engraved gold and silver cases; wristwatches in various shapes; with leather straps, on bracelets, with ornaments, stones or completely plain. Some old, some more contemporary, all looking original and expensive.

Gosh, Jan really has an obsession with watches. And with cleanliness too because I’ve walked a good thirty steps and not once has my foot sensed a single speck of anything.

I probably won’t find a single white spot on the mirror above the sink, and the brightness of the faucet metal will burn my eyes. We are about to find out. I open the bathroom door, and search blindly for the light switch—one would think that in such an exclusive apartment, there would be automatic lighting and an automatic fan in the toilet.

Moving my hand on the wall, I finally manage to come across the switch, turn on the light and…

Eeeeh, I don’t think this is a bathroom. Rather, it is Jan’s office. Tall black bookshelves, a large table with tattered watches, some tools and an office lamp on it, right next to a beautiful, colorfully striped chair.

I’m about to retreat when I glance at the chair again.

I don’t have to say that it does not fit here at all. Wait a minute! That looks all too familiar! I stare at the piece of furniture, my circuits overheating. I don’t get it. What the hell is my wing armchair doing here? I walk closer because maybe it’s not the armchair I sold to the customer, but a similar…

Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse a brown dresser with yellow decorations. I turn to look at it—and I’m stunned. My dresser from the early communist era. I would recognize it anywhere.

I’m getting hot. I look around the room and immediately spot my Louis-style dressing table on the opposite wall!

What the hell!!!

Oh God, my baroque footstool! And the art deco lamp! I massage my face, pinching my cheeks because I no longer know if it’s a dream or…

My head is spinning. Because this is all the furniture that I managed to sell over the past six months!

“The bathroom is next door.” I jump at the sound of the low voice coming from right behind me. I turn abruptly.

Jan stands in the threshold, leaning against the door frame and looking straight at me.

“What is all this?” I ask.

“The bathroom is further down. I told you, the second door to the left. Not the first.”

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