by M. C. Cerny
My breast sweat makes me squirm. It’s like being fifteen again, super awkward and the boy you’ve been crushing on finally takes notice. He smiles at you, except you’re not sure if he’s smiling at you, or Barbara from Biology when you’ve just gauchely raised your hand in a half-hearted wave. I have an overwhelming need to check and see if Barbara is behind me even though rational thought tells me she’s not. Barbara the bitch from Biology hasn’t been around in close to a decade, but you feel her presence, and that’s enough to squash your self-esteem.
“Shit.”
My boss nods, scrubbing his hands over his face and into his hair. Not exactly on the list of approved things to do, but I bite my lip instead of telling him this. After all, I’m a hypocritical nail biter. He’s probably got access to gallons of hand sanitizer and body wash, but at least he’s mirroring a quarter of my own unease.
“I didn’t know how to tell you and then things sort of progressed and it became harder.”
“Right.” I drawl.
We both stare into the screen. I can see the view behind him from the perfect webcam lighting to the cityscape behind his shoulder. It’s the kind of view only a pricey apartment can buy. Afforded by a man well out of my league.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but I was afraid you’d stop talking to me and I like our chats.”
“That’s it? Our chats?” I can feel the pin pop the balloon in my heart deflating me to nothing.
“Let me clarify, Laurel. These chats have become the highlight of my day. So much so that I’m going to kill my buddy for making me miss you last night.”
“Oh.” He makes me speechless with his confession. I don’t know how truthful he’s being, but this feels like the most real conversation we’ve had thus far besides awkward hellos inside elevators and break rooms.
“I wanted to have a drink with you, dinner, dessert, whatever would have gotten me the most time with you.” His smile is something out of a magazine. So beautiful, disarming and utterly perfect.
“I can come into the office tomorrow. I have mail to collect.” Look at me. I’m an eager slut like my sister for man-cock or whatever she calls dick-chicken.
His smile softens. “Not with the order to work from home. I’ll see you soon, but I hope we can meet like this every day. I don’t think I’ll be sane by the end of this, but it’ll help.”
“Right. I keep forgetting. This is so weird.”
“Weird, but not terrible.” He makes it sound like a silly question.
“No.” I chuckle.
“Promise you won’t overthink this and pick up my call tomorrow?”
“I promise.” My head swirls certain this is insanely crazy. I’m sort of cyber dating my boss in a no contact pandemic.
Yup, I’m definitely going to die a virgin.
6
Van
The call ends and I push back from my desk thinking about my girl. My beautiful Laurel is currently hunkered down clear across the island from me and all I want to do is break the rules and drive over to see her. Hold her. Smell her honeysuckle scent that reminds me of spring. The spring we should be having if March and Mother Nature could figure their shit out.
Instead, I’m sitting here alone in my penthouse with a view that makes me incredibly lonely because I have no one to share it with. My building is operating on a skeleton crew. My pool is closed for cleaning and I’m jittery as fuck. The treadmill isn’t cutting it and for the first time, I’m too keyed up to jerk myself off. Surprising even after the most beautiful eyes on screen graced me with her presence and sweet sultry voice. This girl…woman has no idea the effect she has on me and that makes this whole situation ironic?
Catastrophic to my libido for sure.
I’m definitely jumping the gun here on things. I can tell she hasn’t processed the fact that we’ve been emailing and texting the last three months. She’s inevitably going to freak out.
The highlight of my day will be when Laurel buzzes my chat app and I talk to her again. I cross my fingers hoping that I haven’t freaked her out. The only way to know for certain is when she answers my call in about twelve hours from now. I have to make it that long and not be a crazy creeper calling her sooner. It’s bad enough I’m her boss, but I’m curious to know how this matched happened. I took a dare from a buddy of mine to open a dating profile and she was the first one I checked out after a bad date with my typical type. I went for the complete opposite on paper and turns out, Laurel Murphy surprised me.
I’d love to fall asleep with her in my arms as crazy as it sounds and I brainstorm ways I might be able to see her. Maybe we can meet at the grocery store? Hello, surprise in aisle two. Or I can bring her whatever she needs. I could tell by her surrounding room she wasn’t living the penthouse life. I don’t care about the material things. I care about whether or not she’s okay. Does she have everything she needs? Should I check the HR files for her address and send her something? This order has me crazed. Never in a million years did I think my city would shut down or that we’d be forced to stay inside as this thing works its way through the population.
I run through a ton of scenarios in my head of how I’ll get to see her. I probably run as much on my treadmill because I know I can’t. I shouldn’t. Crossing the bridge from Manhattan to Brooklyn is the current kiss of death so I won’t, but I wonder if we can date. Distance dating. We can pretend she’s somewhere else, France or Italy. No, those places won’t do and I realize what a small world this is after all and yet how agonizing it is to be so close and yet so far away.
I hate how complicated this has become.
7
Laurel
I suggest we try dating despite the restrictions in place. A modified sort of thing we’ve been doing most of the time anyway. I mull over about a hundred dates we can do over face time when Van texts me.
VWkingston: Classic picnic. Red checkered blanket, wicker basket, and wine. Jazzy music in the park.
I stare at the phone a moment before I dial his number. He picks up on the first ring.
“I take it that’s a yes?”
“Are we going to sit six feet away from each other while the single dog walkers and runners give us side eye?”
“Fair point. How about we picnic from the roof top? I’ll set up mine and you set up yours and we can debate the best deli in the city.”
“I think that will work. I’m sorry to shoot down your idea. It sounds lovely all things considered.” It really does. What I wouldn’t give to hand feed my boss fresh grapes from my lap and sip on wine while the regular park goers do their thing around us.
“Okay, give me an hour and we’ll meet back in our chat room.”
“Great.” I hang up feeling myself grin from ear to ear like the Joker on a bender. He makes me happy and yet I can’t get anywhere near him.
The hour passes quickly and since the day is nice enough I drag my laptop and a blanket with my food up to the roof. It’s unseasonably warm for the end of March, finally. I set myself up and make sure the Wi-Fi is connected. I wait impatiently and tuck my legs under me taking in the view. I can see the Brooklyn Bridge from our rooftop and into lower Manhattan. I know Van lives somewhere over there amid the skyscrapers and chaos. My computer pings taking me from my daydreaming and I see Van’s face on the screen. He’s sitting at a metal patio table with a sandwich on his plate, a glass of wine and a view that probably cost millions to acquire. I’m in awe for a moment and don’t catch his smile. He angles the screen so I can see behind him.
“Oh geez, I’m sorry. I was admiring your view.”
He chuffs. “I hope someday you might look at me like that.”
I’m blushing, my face can’t possibly get pinker with the sunshine baking me on the rooftop. He has no idea how many times I drew hearts and flowers around our company logo with his name on it dreaming about him from afar.
“What’s for lunch?” Van steers the comment toward the picnic and we launch into a debate over whi
ch deli has the best sandwiches. He vote’s for Katz’s and I’m a diehard fan of Lloyd’s Kosher Deli.
“And what do you put on your sandwich?” I ask.
“Pastrami on rye.” He says with total seriousness.
“Oh, totally not kissing breath then.” I pretend to wave my hand in front of the screen like I can smell it as he takes a bite and laughs attempting to chew.
“I’ll keep that in mind, Laurel. Tell me then, what does your sweet breath prefer?”
“Chicken salad on rye.” I take a bite of my turkey and cheese because that’s all I had in the fridge. The bread is slightly stale, but I refused to let it go to waste.
“At least we can share a loaf of bread.” He says before launching into my favorite parks to take walks in.
“I prefer the smaller ones with hills, I don’t work out if I can help it, but I enjoy a good walk. Prospect Park is nearby and I take my niece there to play. She’s seven and a handful.”
Van grins explaining how he’s always loved Central Park.
“Laurel, what’s that?” Van points at the screen at something behind me. I half turn and look.
Laughing, “Oh that’s Mickey.” I love that my buddy has come to visit me today chirping with his twitching floofy tail.
“Babe, I don’t want to be the one to tell you this, but that’s not a mouse.” Van is looking utterly confused and I can’t blame him. The fat black squirrel perched on the roof is expecting a hand out. I tear off some bread from my sandwich and toss it at him. We both watch him scurry to pick it up and eat.
“He might have rabies or something, maybe that’s not a good idea.” It’s cute that Van thinks he can protect me from this overweight beggar.
“Nah, Mickey here has been around awhile. He started showing up right after my dad died. I’ve been feeding him since.” I tear off another piece of bread and carefully hold it out daring the fluffy guy to take what I’m offering. It’s not much but when he reaches for it, nose wiggling and beady black eyes I see a little of myself reflected. Hopeful. Patient. Determined to make it. That’s why I keep feeding him.
I turn back to the screen and see Van sitting there. I don’t know if it’s with shock, amazement, or if he’s got animal control on speed dial considering how fresh and new this is. He doesn’t seem like the animal control type, wary sure, protective definitely.
“You know what I’m going to do the moment this shit show is over.”
“What’s that?” I ask biting my lip shy and encouraged by his candor.
“I’m going to kiss you, Laurel Murphy keeper of squirrels, poor taste in delis, and secret rooftop hideouts.”
Van makes me happy and he suggests we go back inside as the clouds move in. I clean up my lunch in the setting sun and carefully carry my laptop to my bedroom where I set him up on my nightstand.
“So how does tonight’s first date end?” I get comfortable in my nest of pillows and see he’s propped me up with him in his bed. A huge king-sized thing with crisp white sheets and downy pillows he’s obviously punched a few times to get comfortable.
“Tonight’s date is going to end strolling one of my favorite museums.” Van sends me a link to the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, Italy.
“I’ve never been.” I have a lot of places on my bucket list to visit and I wish I could be doing this holding his hand or bumping against his shoulder. Anything physical. For now I click on the link and explore this with him. We might not have the warmth of each other but the time and attention he gives me is enough.
“Time to explore Caravaggio and Raphael.”
“My luck, I’d get too close checking out the brush strokes and the alarm would go off.”
Van chuckles. “I’d hold you back. My chest against your back and make sure you didn’t pass the sensor.” The words are innocent and yet it’s like hard core porn when you’ve been told you can’t have any contact. I’m picturing him doing exactly that. He’s warm against my skin. I’d wear a summer dress and let his hands skim up my thighs teasing with the flounce.
I didn’t know he was an art major before switching to advertising. He tells me he has paintings he wants to show me and my trained eye in graphic arts salivates for the moment we can. He weaves art history into a fairytale making me feel like I’m a part of his world. We fall asleep together as he tells me the history of the paintings and I imagine holding hands as I clutch mine together under the sheets.
8
Van
“Do you think I could fit a patch of grass up here?” I point to my roof top area. I want her to tell me her secrets, deepest fears, and things she wishes for, but for now I’ll settle for our daily banter.
“What for?”
I shrug. “I’m thinking of getting a goat. You never know how long this is going to last and I might want milk or cheese.”
“Maybe even a garden?” She muses flopping back on her bed teasing me. I see the peak of pink Barbie sheets and bite my tongue from teasing her.
“Rooftop gardens are a thing.”
She isn’t taking me seriously at all. “Okay Farmer Ward and then what?”
“I’ll start a business and charge a thousand bucks a strawberry.” I cross my arms totally serious as I think about the long-term logistics.
“So you’re a fruit scalper then?”
“No. I’d give you my entire harvest.” I would give her anything she asked of me and more. Her words make me melt like ice cream on a hot summer day. Slow and a little lazy waiting for the next sweet drop. What would I do with strawberries anyway? It felt like our conversation about berries was in fact not about berries at all and I didn’t know how to process that.
“And then what?”
“You’d make me a jam and we’d trade it for whatever we needed.” I’d bargain quite a bit to hold her in my arms.
“So you think I know how to make jam?”
“What’s a little sugar and lemon.” I play it off as no big deal but my mind drifts toward naughty fantasies I shouldn’t be having right now.
“Sugar I have, lemons I do not.”
“Ah, but I might be able to help you out,” I wink. “Though you’d be indebted to me for sure.”
She gives me an exasperated look I adore. “You do not have lemons.”
“Wanna see mine?” I leave the screen for a moment before she can say no. Of course I got them, but I’d send her every single one because I hate the fact we’re separated by water, steel, glass, and about million dollars give or take.
She shouts over the screen, “Okay, you better be talking about lemons and not something else.”
“Alright. Proof of citrus.” I drag over a small tree inside a bucket. It’s a Myer Lemon tree my dad sent me one Christmas and I’ve kept it alive somehow. I pluck one off the tree grinning.
Her hand reaches for the lemon transfixed. Laurel murmurs, “I’ll make you jam.”
“I’m gonna hold you to it, Laurel.” My throat constricts and I’d rather I was holding her.
“I’ll bring my A game to the jam party.”
“Good night. I’ll miss your pretty face.”
“I’ll miss yours too.” We end our call and the pit of loneliness returns. It’s not as bad as the day before or the day before that, but I feel like I’m barely hanging on sometimes and Laurel is the only thread holding me together. I think I love this woman and I hope she might be growing to love me too.
9
Laurel
“Ma, are you teaching Hannah to bake bread?”
“Be glad she’s not making us go Little House on the Prairie with them.” My sister mumbles under her breath as if we’re in some type of solidarity right now over kitchen duty. I’m still mad her blood or not.
“Honestly, Lav I was worried the flour wasn’t good. You remember the last time Ma baked anything?”
We shake our heads drying plates.
“Can flour go stale?”
I lean in next to her whispering, “Do we want to find out?”
/> “Will one of you see if Mrs. Hoffman in 4D will roll two eggs from her doorway? She can have a can of tomato paste for them.” Ma shouts.
“Tough bargain. What if she wants our bag of baby carrots?”
“Then she can go screw. I ignored her gentleman caller a month ago carrying on like a banshee. I’ll be damn if I give that hussy my bag of baby carrots.” Ma snorts. Yeah, that was an awkward night for all of us.
“Ok Ma, that’s enough, little ears are listening.” I cover Hannah’s ear as she pulls them away.
“What’s a man caller?” My niece asks blinking her owlish eyes at me. I shrug and hope the question is deflected to my sister who should be a responsible parent every now and again. I might be the auntie, but I’m not obligated to explain those sorts of things to a seven-year-old.
“As if Laurel would know.” She teases me and I feel like the gauntlet has been thrown down.
“Girls.” Our mother clucks waving us toward the door. We’ve been reduced to shouting through walls. I volunteer as tribute because out of us all, Mrs. Hoffman actually likes me and I’ll get the eggs.
Mrs. Hoffman relents after I ask her nicely and promise to keep both my Ma and Marley on a leash. I don’t share that tidbit with Ma and escape to my room when my phone buzzes.
It’s Van face timing me.
“So since six feet apart isn’t enough, how about I rent a bubble costume?” He says deadpanning over the phone.
“Didn’t some adorable guy near Prospect Park do that already? Come on, you can do better than that.”
“You think there’s only one bubble costume in the city?”
“No, but they started a rooftop romance with a drone and we already know each other.” I muse.
Van mumbles. “Not biblically.”