Page 9 of Phishing for Love
That might be Mevia’s name for him, but it’s certainly not mine. Right now, the names bouncing around in my head can’t be said out loud. “Yes.”
“Calvin’s given him Sara’s old office.”
Naturally. No menial cubicle for The Man of the Hour. “Okay, thanks.” I turn to go, but Mevia lightly grasps my arm. “Um, maybe you should calm down first, Tess, before you speak to him.”
“I’m calm! I’m super calm! I’m like a...a pond.” In reality I’m more like a raging, turbulent ocean right now, but Mevia looks so worried I make myself take in a slow, calming breath. “Okay, I’m good to go,” I reassure her and off I stomp to Aaron’s office.
The door’s closed. I knock, but when there’s no answer, I open the door and step inside. Aaron is sitting at his desk, suit jacket draped neatly over his chair back. I can’t help but observe the snug fit of his white shirt across a surprisingly muscled chest. I’m immediately annoyed at myself for the observation.
I open my mouth and he holds up a finger.Wait, the finger says. It’s only then that I notice he’s on his phone. He doesn’tinvite me to sit in the visitor’s chair across from him. That’s fine. I’d rather stand anyway.
While I wait, I let my eyes wander shamelessly around his office. He’s made no effort to personalize the space. I’m also getting strong neat freak vibes as I stare at a desk holding only a sad, undecorated laptop, a black notebook, and an expensive-looking pen, all three items lined up neatly. I’ve sat in a tax office with more personality than this.
He needs one of Calvin’s posters in here, I think idly. Calvin’s taken all the best-selling cards Amell Greetings has produced over the years and blown them up into huge posters to make up the wall art on our third floor.
This office is starving for color. For joy. Forme. The person who desperately wants an office over a cubicle.
Aaron seems in no hurry to cut short his call. Because I’m bored, I tune into his conversation. It doesn’t sound like a work call, especially when he lets out a deep laugh and says in a low, intimate voice, “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.”
Well, this is aworkday and I’m aworkcolleague trying to talk to him on awork-related matter, so I have no compunction pointedly clearing my throat and saying, “I need to speak to you about—”
Astonishment sweeps through me when he swivels his chair and presents me with his back. The absolute nerve of the man to just dismiss me as if I’m nothing. Anger starts to stir inside me. Before I do or say something I’ll regret, I exit his office, not bothering to close his door.
Watching me approach, Mevia whispers, “Do you need help burying a body?”
I shake my head. “He’s still breathing. Unfortunately.”
I head back to my cubicle, ignoring the sidelong glances of my coworkers. I’m hoping my face conveys a clear message that they would be risking their lives if they approach me right now.One of the worst parts about working in a main area filled with cubicles is that there is no door to slam. Right now, my bruised ego is craving the satisfaction of a fierce door slam.
I sink into my desk chair and stew for a solid two minutes, rearranging my pens and aggressively stapling papers that do not require stapling.
Except the deadline for the silver wedding anniversary card I have to write is fast approaching and I can’t procrastinate any longer. Blocking out all thoughts of Calvin and Aaron, I stare at my blank screen, scrunching my nose as I think. My imagination typically fills in any experiential gaps, but this time I’m stumped. How can I write about something I know nothing about?
All at once, I picture my parents. They’re childhood sweethearts, married for thirty-five years. I picture my dad waking up before my mom every morning so he can bring her a cup of coffee in bed. I picture them holding hands while taking an ambling walk around the neighborhood. A lump forms in my throat and my fingers fly across the keyboard, the words pouring out of me. I tweak and polish, so the piece is not as raw, but still sweet and sentimental, exactly what Enya, my editorial manager, requested. I email it off to her. Hopefully, my words will bring a tear even to her jaded, I’ve-been-divorced-twice-and-seen-it-all eyes.
To combat my typical drained state after finishing a card, I take out a blank piece of paper and start sketching. It’s become a relaxing habit of mine, drawing pictures as a way to unwind and boost my imagination. I don’t let myself think, I simply let my hand wander.
When I eventually break out of my daze and focus on the piece of paper, I realize I’ve drawn a caricature of Aaron’s face, elongating his nose and ears, giving him fangs and horns.
I’m impressed with myself.
“You haven’t got my chin right,” says a voice.
Aaron.
I whip the paper away and stuff it into a drawer.
How could I have been so focused that I didn’t register a six-foot-something presence in my cubicle? Aaron’s arms are folded and his eyes are regarding me with either interest or impatience, I can’t quite tell. I don’t know how long he’s been standing there watching me. The thought makes me uncomfortable and that makes me want to fidget. I tuck my hands under my thighs. No way am I revealing my tell.
I have to lean back in my chair to look up at him, which puts me at a disadvantage. This, I’m guessing, is his intention.
“You came to see me,” he says.
We’re wasting no time on small talk. Good. Before I can say anything, however, I see him take in the multitude of photos and neon post-its I’ve tacked to my cubicle walls. He looks appalled. “It’s like I’ve stepped into a preschool classroom.”
My middle finger twitches.Behave, I tell it sternly. “I’m sorry to hear that color offends you.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Poor taste offends me.”
