“She’s sleeping right now, and if the phrase ‘never wake a sleeping bear’ had an origin…”
“I get it,” he says, and hums some rock tune. “I’d probably read a lot or workout, I guess. There are a lot of books in my queue right now.” Justin is a bibliophile and needs a monthly book-buying intervention. Books he plans to read cover his shelves; including three years of New York Times top ten list selections. He still hasn’t gotten through the last Harry Potter book and becomes irate if I hint at spoilers.
“I’ve read all my books and have no desire to be judged by the Barnes and Noble barista.”
“It’s not like Kelly fired you. You’ll be back on Monday. We could meet for lunch today. Kevin will call you when we go.”
I’m grateful for the offer and say so, but it will feel weird doing a working lunch and then not working afterward.
“I don’t think I can take three days of this.”
“You could always go out and buy a journal. Don’t the rules call for that?”
“I hate you.”
“Have a great day!”
Things to Do on Weekdays When You’re Not at Work
Catch up on news both national and local. I had no idea a massive volcano erupted somewhere over in Europe.
Re-read old magazines until mind wanders.
Do the crossword puzzle in the paper and get angry when you only have one answer left and the clue is “Port City in Ecuador.”
Curse self for not knowing South American geography.
Paint toe and fingernails different shades until settling on Pink Peony.
Call friends at work and ask them how work is going. (This is not a good option, as said friends won’t answer your calls).
I’m so giddy on Monday morning that I forget to run. For the first time in a year I don’t lace up my shoes and fix my earphone’s twisted cord. I’m so excited that I upset my own routine. In my mad dash to get out the door and be the first person in the office, I also forget my coffee. Luckily, I remember the briefcase.
When I walk in a few people mill about or listen to music at their desks. These perpetually early people tense at my entrance like a meerkat community sensing a predator. Their ears perk up and they stare, following me with their eyes.
The light is on in Kelly’s office, which is unusual. She never ventures into the office this early. Her door is open, so I bypass my office and peer inside. She sits at her desk and watches something on her computer screen, oblivious to the world. Her elfish features are best highlighted when she thinks no one is watching. At five foot one and slender, she makes the perfect fairy, and her crisp, short hair shows off shapely cheekbones and a pointed nose. She taps her manicured fingers on the desk as if bored. She manages to look stunning despite the early hour. A dainty gray cardigan rests on her chair’s back, and she chose a pink sheath dress with a huge smoky quartz necklace.
“Hi, Kelly. I’m back.”
She turns from the screen and smiles. A steaming mug sits next to her computer, and lavender and chamomile scent the air. I’ve never known Kelly enjoys tea. The things you notice about people early in the morning are usually the most revealing.
“Welcome back. Have a nice vacation?”
“You know I didn’t.”
“Absolute torture?”
“I almost slid into sloth and gluttony.” I had no idea what to do with my time off. Normally I call my friends on weekends and we get together, but as I’m shunning the integral part of my friendship circle, it made planning difficult.
“It was good for you. There’s color in your cheeks today.” She notices my cheeks? I would never compare Kelly to my mother, but this is odd. “I can tell you are all business as usual, but we need to chat before the other editors get here for our meeting. Please sit.”
I take my place across from her, and she offers the mug. “Tea? I just made this blend last week.”
“No thank you. I’ll get coffee later. Forgot mine at home.”
“Indeed,” she says and lifts an eyebrow. “I was under the impression that you forget nothing.” Another strange comment. Bosses are supposed to watch and nurture their employees, but this is something new. Kelly has never shown more than a casual interest in my comings and goings, unless it relates to work.
“I’m flustered. I hate feeling idle, and this week has been an exercise in futility.”
“Meaning?” She senses my agitation and leans across the desk as if to hear me better. It feels like talking to a psychiatrist.
“The whole situation is frustrating. I can’t believe my friends got so many people involved, especially you. It’s embarrassing.” I shift in the chair and look away. I can’t handle her transparent gaze. Nothing makes me feel more uncomfortable than being judged by a superior. It’s like tiny glass flecks embedded in my skin. I feel itchy.
“I found the charade amusing. Why do you feel so threatened by change?”
“Excuse me?”
She steeples her fingers together and tilts her head to the side. After a moment she rises and walks to the door. She closes it, turns to her filing cabinet and grabs a file off the top. She leans against the cabinet and opens the file.
“You have been with Weston’s for five years and have received a raise each year. You have been promoted twice and make more money per annum than your three counterparts.” All true, but I deserve every penny. No one in my department can claim my accomplishments. I’m good at what I do, dammit! Why can’t people leave me alone and let me live my life?
“I believe it is time for another promotion. One you have been waiting for since joining this company.” Oh! She’s hinting at the job right under her, senior editor! We hadn’t had one in a long time. Kelly handles a lot. I would be the youngest person to gain that position in company history. Kelly managed to snap up the spot at thirty. I knew she was grooming me!
“There is a catch.”
“Do you need me to show you the prep work I’ve done on those novels we optioned?” What will Mom and Dad say when they hear I’ve been promoted! Beat that Joel! I’m now the more successful sibling! He can take his online catering service and shove it!
“The proviso is far more interesting.” She sets the file down and crosses her arms. She takes a deep breath before saying, “I want you to entertain the notion of going through with your friends’ scheme.”
“What?” I laugh. She cannot be serious. Next, she’ll say she was kidding, and I’ll be promoted! New office! My own parking space! Okay, maybe not the parking space.
“I have noticed a decline in you these last few months. I was not aware until someone pointed it out.”
“I’m perfectly healthy, Kelly.”
“Physically perhaps, but emotionally…” She shakes her head and removes her glasses before going on. “I see the way you sneer at the new romance novels that come in. When you’re the chief editor on that particular genre, your work grows cold and detached. You do not let yourself become the characters. You rob them of glamour and frivolity. And so, you inject the work with frigidity.”
I might vomit. I’m not sure what she’s talking about. I hate the romances, but what single girl doesn’t secretly wish those prissy, lovesick heroines a swift death? I never eliminate all the cheese from romance manuscripts, but one can only read about quivering members and lengthy, lovelorn glances for so long.
“You’re angry with me, but I don’t care. The truth always stings.” I realize how much I hate Kelly’s voice. She’s not in Austen England! And what’s with the criticism? She sounds like my college advisor: there’s almost no chance of ever becoming a published author, much less one famous enough to make it your sole profession.
“You want me to go along with Alicia and the girls? To go on twelve dates with twelve strangers they pull off the Internet?”
“Yes,” she seems pleased that I figure it out so quickly. “Exactly. It’s not because of some bet. Because of your attitude toward the romances, which we tend to publish a lot
of, I cannot see you in the position. The senior editor must handle all genres. Maybe this little trial will help you reengage with romance in general. Even if the experiences are difficult, you’ll get something out of them.”
She thinks I can’t handle romance novels? I’ve tackled far more daunting subjects than puppy love and ridiculous sex scenes. Who is she to tell me I can’t handle something? Especially something so trivial?
“When they said you were in on it, I had no idea you’d sink this low,” I say.
“I’ll sink as low as I must to help your career. I may be your boss, but I’m also your friend, and I wish you well.” She walks back to her desk and sits. She calls herself my friend, but are these the actions of a friend?
“You think I have no heart.” I almost whisper. Is this what everyone thinks? That I can’t feel anymore? That I can’t love?
“That is not what I said. Persons involved in interventions have a tendency toward pity, but I expect more of you. Of course, you have a heart, but it’s not open.”
“There’s a good reason—”
“I do not doubt that, but has it been long since this person broke you?”
I nod and fold my hands in my lap. Have I been a depressing load on everyone I know for three years? I had no idea my friends, colleagues, and family felt this way. Why did no one talk to me before? Did I close myself off?
“It’s been three years since I’ve dated anyone.”
“Well,” she says and claps her hands, “then it’s time to get back out there. I don’t expect you to fall for the first man you see, you’re too cautious for that, but don’t hold the entire male population hostage with your derision.”
She turns to her computer, which is my signal to depart. My briefcase feels like I loaded it with weights.
“Meeting at nine as usual,” she mentions before I close her office door.
Kelly assigns me Kiss and Tell, a new romance novel by Elizabeth Hanks. Justin earns my devotion by voicing sympathy but also mentions a new bookshop where I might find a suitable journal. Jerk.
June
Tony Two-Phone and Rule Number One: You have to go on at least two dates per month with each month’s guy…unless he’s a huge jackass.
Email: [email protected] to [email protected]
Date One Information:
Anthony Schwartz, age 32, height 5’11,’’ is a sports enthusiast who enjoys running, cycling, softball, and bowling. He works for an advertising company in the Cities and owns a golden retriever named Stan.
Your destination: Axel’s Bonfire on Grand Avenue for cocktails at 7:30pm. I know you can drink but keep it to two of something and don’t mix your boozes! Remember Prague?
Love,
Alicia
That’s all they give me: a name, some “vital” statistics, and a location. And I can handle my alcohol just fine. Prague was a fluke; a dreadful vomit-drenched fluke.
This is a journal of my dating scene exploits, a kingdom I have not visited in three years. I should count the wasted years with Pete, but since I was technically in a relationship I was off the market. Why does dating make you feel like a fish market display? They catch you, chop off your unnecessary parts and put the tender bits on display at a set price. If no one chooses you it’s off to the garbage can.
I’m nervous and fidgety getting ready. What do I wear? Should I curl my hair? Put it up or leave it down? Which lipstick goes with this eye shadow? Oh God, it clashes with my silk top, now there’s a wardrobe crisis! Nothing in the closet looks good enough for a date. Why did I buy that ugly sweater? Why did I keep those jeans when I knew I’d never wear them again? Did my mother hand those shoes down to me?
I don’t remember it being this difficult.
Why is it that when you’re preparing to meet someone new you notice all the little things about yourself that you hate, like that permanent zit near your left tear duct or that one stray arm hair that grows the opposite direction? My freckles make me look like some kind of red-haired jungle cat. I’m too fat, too pale, too old, and too short. Every negative shoves its way to the brain’s forefront and squabbles for attention.
And I’m sweating. I’m out of napkins and paper towels (makes mental note to go to the store), but I’m sweating so much I put panty-liners in my armpits and leave the apartment.
As I drive out to Grand Avenue, which is a long strip of bars, restaurants, chic boutiques, and cafes, I unravel. What if this guy’s ugly or thinks I’m ugly? What if we have nothing in common besides a love of running and pets? If I need to fall back on talking about Prospero’s shenanigans, I’ll know the date was a bust. I can spend hours talking about him, but Jesus that’s boring if you’re the other person, or so my brother says.
Speaking of my dear little brother, he has been surprisingly silent about the affair. He knows about it, because Mom mentioned he did, but he hasn’t called or emailed to ridicule me. Maybe he’s too busy stuffing fancy sausages to bother. I must remember to write him a scathing email berating him for inattention.
Grand is busy on Friday nights, so I have trouble finding a parking spot. After circling the area for ten minutes I settle for the ramp and swallow the bitter parking-fee pill. I almost drop the ticket under my car but snatch it inside, straining my arm and losing the left sweat-coated armpit panty-liner out the window. Lopsided perspiration rings are so attractive.
By the time I park and walk down to street level, it’s twenty after seven. Bonfire sits across the street next to my favorite pastry shop and café. I wait at the light and cross with the crowd, most of them dressed for warm weather but not for a super-chilled restaurant environment. They scoff at my sweater, but I’ll wind up triumphant and comfortable.
Inside Bonfire I ask the host if Anthony Schwartz is in the bar waiting for someone.
“Yes, he’s seated at one of the high-tops. Right this way.”
He’s early, a good sign. Lateness appalls me. If a guy really wants to meet you, he’ll be on time. If he’s late, there’s a subconscious gnome tripping him up. I’d rather not bother with someone who’s not ready to meet me. But I’m not ready for this encounter either. I hope he’s easy to talk to, because it will be a short date if he’s not. I plan on having one glass of wine then leaving. I have just the excuse ready: when in doubt, blame it on cramps.
The host leads me past the thick oak bar with its many beer taps and infused vodka cauldrons and shows me to Anthony. He sits at the third table in, next to the big bay windows, his back to me, cell phone up to one ear. He gestures smoothly with the other hand, making circular motions with his fingers. As we approach, he spins, sees me, and says, “I’ll call you back.”
He’s not bad looking; taller than me thank God, trim, brown hair and dark eyes. One eyebrow arches higher than the other, but it gives him a confused, endearing appearance. He wears a blue long-sleeve button-down shirt and khakis, the perfect casual uniform. He’s either a first-time dater who didn’t know what to wear, or he knows exactly what looks good on him.
“Cassandra?” He extends a hand and smiles. The smile puts me more at ease and I reach for his hand.
“Cassie’s fine. Anthony?”
“Tony.” He seems pleased with my appearance, and then I remember the other horrible thing under my right armpit. When he pulls out the stool for me, I say, “I just have to run to the bathroom for one second. I’ll be right back.” He smiles and shrugs, as if implying, silly women and their constant bathroom use. I try not to run for the restroom, and I accidentally bump a server typing in someone’s order on a computer.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, mortified. Head down I race for the bathroom. The mirror shows a reasonably put-together young woman. I’m glad my anxiety hasn’t shown. I toss the panty-liner and take a deep breath. Remember yoga: deep inhalation, long, slow exhalation. I almost clasp my hands to my chest and say “Namaste” but go back into the dining room. As I pass the host stand, I hear laughter and think it’s about me, thoug
h they’re probably talking about plans after work. Hosts are young and prone to giggling. Looking at their hip ensembles, my black slacks and silk blouse choice seems misinformed.
Back at the table, Tony is on the cell phone again, but he hangs up when he sees me. Strange, it didn’t look like the first phone he had out. Maybe I’m just confused.
When I sit down the server swoops in and takes our order. Tony got two waters for us before I arrived, and he orders a tall Tanqueray and tonic with lime. Not a bad choice if you like pine trees. I order the house chardonnay.
“So, how’s your day going?” he asks and sips his water. An un-squeezed lemon floats on top and distracts me. If people order lemon for their water, why don’t they squeeze it in? It’s not doing any good sitting there. I fish my lemon out with my fingers, shield the glass from over-spray, and squeeze. Acidic juice runs down my hand.
“Fine. I work at a publishing company, and we recently acquired new stock. We have to go through the manuscripts carefully and edit out the author’s mistakes.”
“So, you’re kind of like a copywriter?”
“A little, but my job encompasses more editing than grammar and spellchecks. I’m there to work out the kinks. But you’d be surprised how poor people’s grammar is.”
“Huh, I thought all writers had good grammar,” he chuckles.
I smile. I love talking about writing. I wonder if he’s read anything I’ve edited. “Some do, but writing a novel takes a lot of time, and sometimes the author misses things. I mix up ‘bear’ and ‘bare’ all the time.” When I say “bear” I make clawing motions with my hands, and he laughs again. “I got in trouble in my college writing workshops for that.”
“You don’t seem like the type who gets in trouble.”
“Not much anymore, but when I was younger…”
“Rebellious?”
“That’s putting it lightly. My little brother is the family saint. I get by on redemptive qualities and parental adulation.”
Men of the Year Page 4