Missed Connections

by Tamara Mataya

  A lady walks by with a Yorkie who sniffs at me—probably smelling my sandwich—before its owner pulls it away.

  Two guys about my age play Ultimate Frisbee, throwing harder and puffing out their chests when they notice me, but I don’t even care about their abs.

  Pete answers on the fourth ring. “Hey.”

  “Oh my fucking God, Pete, this has been the worst day ever. They were talking about me right in front of my face. They didn’t care that I could hear. They just went on and on about how bad it is for your energy to only care about appearances. I was feeling so good about your makeover, and now I feel really crappy and alone and I need a hug and a reminder that I’m fabulous.” I stuff a bite of my panino in my mouth to soothe myself with bacon.

  “You what? This was your boss and coworkers making you feel bad about yourself? Give me names.”

  This isn’t Pete. I swallow my bite of sandwich and close my eyes. “Jack?”

  “Yeah. And for the record? You are drop-dead gorgeous.”

  Mortification overtakes my purring ego. “Where’s Pete? I called his phone and not yours, right?”

  “He sprang a sushi date on me and then abandoned me to flirt with the host. His phone rang, I saw it was you and answered…and fuck those hippies.”

  Could this day get any more embarrassing? Gratitude seeps through the murky mortification. “Thank you for getting my dad’s pills to him, Jack. I owe you one.”

  “No, you don’t. But I want to hear more about these assholes who were mean to you.”

  Screw it, he already knows too much for me to salvage any dignity from this story. “I can’t believe it actually happened. They weren’t even pretending to talk about someone else. They didn’t say my name, but it was obvious and makes me feel like I’m shallow and want meaningless things from life because I got a haircut.”

  “No way. Are you supposed to never change the way you look? Never want to try something different? Pete would starve if women believed that. You’re helping keep businesses afloat!”

  I laugh.

  “You strut back in there and show them how a confident modern woman doesn’t let people keep her down. I mean, shit, are you supposed to walk around with a bag over your head? Pete showed me a picture of your new haircut. You look fucking hot.”

  The slight growl in his voice makes me feel a lot better.

  “They’re clearly jealous,” he continues. “Go back in there and tell them to fuck their own faces. Flip ’em off.”

  Laughter bubbles through me. What would it be like to come home to him every night? He’d make me laugh and then make love to me, making it all better. I could call him anytime through the day when something happened. But no. Being with Jack would be like having a panther ranging around at home. “That might get in the way of my chakra chi or whatever.”

  “Your chakra chi is fine. Don’t let those hippies get you down. It’s Sarah.” Jack’s voice is muffled before sounding normal again. “Pete’s back. Want a word?”

  I glance at my phone. I’ve already been gone twenty-three minutes. I only get half an hour for lunch. “No, I should be getting back.”

  “All right. I’ll talk to you later?”

  “Yes. Thanks, Jack.”

  “Anytime.”

  I let myself roll around in the softness of his voice for a minute before walking back to Inner Space. He really is a nice guy—despite the shitty things I said to him. Also, he’s right. The glass doors reflect my new and improved appearance. Finger-combing the ends of my hair, I remember how great my makeover made me feel when I first saw it, and I let that thought buoy me across reception to my desk after pausing to chug a cup of water.

  Screw my judgmental coworkers.

  I open the lower drawer to put my purse in and find the label maker, reminding me of Blake’s present. With the business of the morning and then the shit-talking about me in reception earlier, I completely forgot about it. Moving the label maker aside, my fingers brush against the small chocolate truffle bar.

  I could kiss Blake right now for this perfectly timed pick-me-up.

  I slowly unwrap it, a brand I’m not familiar with, and take a bite while reading the package. It’s glorious. Silky smooth, semi-dark with raspberry cream, and delicious. It’s organic, so even if the hippies saw me eating it, I wouldn’t get a lecture, but it doesn’t taste like cardboard. And there’s no carob in it—the chocolate of hippies.

  I sit with a small piece of Blake’s chocolate melting on my tongue, letting it sweeten up my bitter day.

  * * *

  The next night, I settle in front of the computer with some wine to unwind.

  Anniversary of Sorts

  Well, that could be anything. I click it open.

  Bumping into you again gave me butterflies even after all these years.

  I haven’t been estranged from anyone long enough to warrant “all these years.” Oh, and it’s from a woman to a man.

  On to the next one.

  Girl Pissing in the Men’s Room at the Grilled

  What the hell?

  Your piercings were hot. Wish I’d gotten your number, but my hands were full and you left the bar right after you left the bathroom. I’d love to watch you piss again. Maybe more.

  I feel my eyes become two different sizes. Whatever happened to romance? Taking another slug from my glass of wine, I click open the next post.

  Saw you outside work yesterday. You were wearing a light green top and huge sunglasses in your dark hair.

  I gasp. I wore my favorite green cami yesterday.

  Love the new sassy haircut.

  My heart pounds. This has got to be me, right? And he said work, not “your” work. It’s totally Blake. Unless it isn’t. What if it’s a total stranger? Some creeper who wants to romance me, love me, and chop me up to keep in his freezer—or watch me pee like that other ad?

  But what if it’s someone sweet who reads these posts like I do? I’m not a freak, so not everyone into these is weird. Odds are that a lot of normal people check Missed Connections as well. I have to know if it’s about me, so I hit Reply and begin typing.

  Tell me the color of the jeans I was wearing, and the new shade of highlights in my hair…

  This should be interesting. I wore a black skirt today, not jeans. We’ll see if he tries to bluff and guesses a color, or if this one is actually about me.

  Let the games begin.

  Blake has left me an email too.

  From: bwilde@mail.com

  Subject: RE: Label maker

  No one likes a label maker that stoops to extortion.

  Short and sweet. This email was sent within half an hour of the ad being posted. I open my email and send a message to him.

  From: sarah@mail.com

  Subject: RE: Label maker

  Tell your label maker (more like troublemaker!) friend that it has fabulous taste in chocolate.

  I read the ad again. Do I want Blake to be my secret admirer? Do I want to take my mind off an impossible attraction to Jack by taking up with someone I barely know?

  I grin. The ad might not even be about me.

  But maybe it is.

  And maybe I do.

  Chapter 13

  It’s 10:43 a.m., and my heart is racing, though unfortunately not from the pot of coffee I inhaled at home in the hopes of at least appearing awake this morning. The UPS guy walks in with five big boxes on a dolly and drops them in front of my desk, blocking the doorway, and thrusts his electronic board in my face to sign.

  “First name?”

  “Sarah.”

  “First initial of your last name?”

  “J.”

  “Have a good one.” He walks out whistling obnoxiously, leaving the boxes.

  Now, not only do I have to call back six clients about various things, catch up on the laundry, and prep four rooms, but I have to deal with these boxes. I’ve also had to pee for the last forty-five minutes.

  “Gee, it sure must be nice to have yo
ur job.” Ziggy’s client vacantly smiles at me. “It would be so relaxing to work here.”

  She has no idea. My smile must be manic, but I play along, wanting to scream. As soon as she’s gone, I focus on my tele-nemesis. It’s been ringing nonstop today, as if some people have “I’m busy. Please, no one call now!” radar that signals them to phone at the worst times.

  And the fact that I’m a teensy bit hungover isn’t helping.

  But ten minutes later, the messages are sorted out, the phone is quiet, and I dash to the back and fold laundry like an origami artist on speed. The load fresh from the dryer burns my hands a bit, but I forge ahead. Fifteen minutes later, the shelves are stocked, the last load is in the dryer, my hair sticks up all over from static electricity, and my throat burns for a drink.

  And I still really have to go to the bathroom.

  My thirst can wait; my bladder cannot. I rush into the washroom and pee like a racehorse, sagging with relief.

  And then notice someone’s used all the toilet paper and not replaced it. I can’t bear drip-drying on top of everything else this morning. Please, I hope, reaching into my cardigan pocket. Yes! I’d tucked a couple of tissues away, and thank God for that. The bathroom is filled with my annoyed swears, muttered quietly so no one hears them, as I finish up and head for a drink of water.

  Instead, I find Fern. “Hello, Sarah. Have a seat.”

  I become aware of the fact I’m sweating, frizzy, and annoyed from the laundry. I must look red and deranged, so I surreptitiously smooth my hair and blot the tiny beads of sweat from my upper lip as I sit at my desk.

  Fern hands me a cup of spicy herbal tea and rolls a chair over by my desk. She settles into it and sips her own tea. “Is there anything you want to tell me?” Her intense gaze isn’t quite a glare, but I still feel uncomfortably scrutinized. Does she know I’m hungover? But why should that matter? I was here on time and have been working steadily since I walked in the door.

  Is this about Blake? Surely flirting doesn’t violate the “no dating coworkers” policy. Best to play dumb.

  “About what?” I blow on and sip my tea, wishing it was cold water instead of a steaming beverage. Honestly, even with the air-conditioning, how can they drink so much hot tea in the summer?

  “Anything at all. I’d never judge you; you know that. And even if something was wrong, you could come to me. I’d never be anything but fair.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but I don’t have anything to confide.”

  It’s clear she really wants me to tell her a secret, but there’s nothing I want to tell her. Is this the way she makes friends with people? Does she do this as one of the steps in her energy programs? People confess weird secrets, and they laugh and bond over herbal teas?

  “Okay. But my offer stands.”

  “Thanks.”

  She stands and takes my cup, even though I’m not done, and disappears into the kitchen before heading into her appointment with her client. I pour a cup of cold water from the cooler, finally soothing my parched throat. I really should have tried harder to come up with something to share, but what?

  People like her grab on to your personal things and think it’s fine to talk to other people about them. I don’t trust her not to chat about my life to Ziggy or anyone else in the office—including Phyllis, since they’re such besties. And I sure as hell don’t need Phyllis latching on to any of my problems. She’d exploit anything she could.

  No, I made the right decision to keep silent. If I learned anything at the law firm, it’s that people don’t actually give a shit about how you are. One time I was honest when a coworker asked how I was feeling the week after my dad had his third heart attack. My mother had told Dad she’d been having another affair. They’d fought and he’d had another heart attack. Mom told me when I got to the hospital. And he still took her back that time. Not wanting to upset him, I’d contented myself with glaring at her over his body when he fell asleep.

  I’d come back to work from lunch a few minutes late—having bitched my mom out on an extra-long phone call. I’d been honest with my bosses when I apologized for being late, but all they wanted to know was if I was emotionally compromised and unable to do my job. They told me if I wasn’t able to keep home issues at home, then I should seek employment elsewhere.

  Real charming.

  I’ve kept my feelings to myself since then while at work.

  With a sigh, I move Fern’s chair back to the wall opposite the door, chug three cups of cold water from the cooler, and get back to typing up the files. I catch Fern giving me strange looks all day when our paths cross, but I pretend I don’t notice. What’s her deal?

  * * *

  Weariness from worrying about Fern’s motivations evaporates when I get home and open my email after pouring a glass of wine. New message from unknown sender. Subject, Missed Connection.

  My fingers tremble above the mouse’s buttons. He has my email address. Not that a hundred people or so don’t have it, but this is proof I know the person—or rather, that they definitely know me.

  If I open this email, there’s no going back.

  My finger double-clicks the mouse, opening the email with a little help from my nosy nature.

  From: anon@mail.com

  Subject: Missed Connection

  Trick question. There were no pants. Your hair has new red streaks that complement the paleness of your skin. Care to continue this on Skype? Chat, not video, unless you’re open to it. Add me—Missed.Connection.

  It is about me! I bounce in my chair, hop up, and brew a cup of coffee, though the last thing I probably need right now is more stimulation. I need my wits about me. Of course I’m going to reply, but I need a moment to stop the buzzing beneath my skin. Cup of french vanilla attained, I open Skype, making sure to shutter my camera before adding him as a contact. Just in case. No way am I going to see him for the first time with unwashed hair, bad lighting, and no makeup.

  Adding him to my contacts only takes a second, and I start a text conversation. The first question is mine.

  Me: Do I know you?

  Him: Not as well as you think.

  Someone I know but have the wrong idea about? Or is it just an acquaintance? I lick my dry lips.

  Me: How well do you know me?

  Him: Not as well as I’d like.

  He’s quick at typing too. Excitement and unease war for dominance in my stomach. If it’s not Blake, it’s still someone I know, maybe someone from work. I nearly shudder myself inside out imagining Ziggy on the other end of this conversation. After working at Inner Space, there’s no way in hell I’d date a hippie or a married person—though at this point, I think dating a hippie would be worse. Maybe that’s what Blake means about not knowing him. Does he think I think he’s one of them?

  But maybe it isn’t Blake at all. So who else could it be?

  A cute guy manages the wine shop next to the grocery store by work. We had a long chat about the uplifting qualities of champagne the other day. Since then, when we catch each other’s eye as I walk past, he waves. But he doesn’t have my email address.

  Okay, maybe it’s a tad creepy that this person knows me and I have no idea who he is. I guess as long as he doesn’t ask for my bank details or any weird personal information that could lead to him scamming me, I’m safe. I mean, if he meant me harm, he could have grabbed me off the street when I was strutting around in my little black skirt.

  A shiver rolls across my skin as I realize how vulnerable I am. How vulnerable we all are to people who might mean us harm. Anyone at any time could pull us into a car, or hit us across the head with something and drag us into an alley. But we can’t live in fear. The locks on our apartment doors don’t keep the bad guys out. They just lock us inside the illusion of security. If someone really wants to get in, a lock or door won’t stop them.

  And this feeling is closer to excitement than fear.

  This is crazy, I type.

  Him: I know.

  M
e: Have you ever done anything like this before?

  His reply comes immediately. Missed connections or online relationships?

  Both. Not like I’d know if he’s lying, but if this is going to work, I need to trust a little.

  Him: Never done online dating. And Missed Connections is a new thing to me. A friend showed it to me, and she was really into reading them, which piqued my interest. But I just got this feeling when I started cruising through them. So many ads, so many people. Filled with such…hope. All these people are reaching out, putting themselves out there, hoping against hope that the person they felt a momentary connection with—no matter how tenuous—will see it and maybe even be reaching back for them.

  And then they’ll make contact. Like we did.

  Him: If they’re lucky.

  A blush heats me from within. He feels lucky to have connected with me? Sudden boldness possesses my fingers. What’s your name?

  This time his reply takes longer, almost as if he’s typing, deleting it, and typing again. Are you sure you want to know?

  Is there a reason you don’t want to tell me? Mild unease seeps into my chest. What’s he got to hide?

  Him: I’d love it if you’d get to know me first.

  Me: But you already know me.

  Him: If it’s okay with you, I’d prefer no names until a little later.

  I bite my lip. But you already know my name.

  Him: I know. It’s not fair, and yet, I’m asking. But it’s ultimately your decision.

  Me: You’re not a hippie, are you?

  Him: I promise I’m not a hippie. In real life you know I’m not. We’ve ranted about them together.

  It’s totally Blake. Well, if he wants me to not pry until we’ve talked a bit more, that’s okay. Maybe most women get caught up on the fact he’s a massage therapist and somehow think it’s weird, or that he’s a cheater, since he’s always around naked people.