Isn't It Time

by Graham, Susan J.

  At first, I let it go, attributing his behavior to stress from his job. But after two months of that kind of thing on a daily basis, I had had enough. I was tired of walking on eggshells, afraid to say anything that might upset him, or even look at him in a way he might find objectionable.

  It was a Saturday afternoon and we were at my house watching television, him on one end of the couch and me as far away from him as possible on the other end. He was in the process of belittling me because he found the commercial that had just aired to be stupid. Like I was the fucking director of advertising or something.

  And that’s when I told him I wanted out. I don’t know what I expected. In the back of my mind, I guess I thought he would agree it wasn’t working and just leave. He didn’t.

  A major argument ensued and, no matter what I said, I just couldn’t get the man to see reason. I remained seated and tried to stay calm, but I was finally so angry and frustrated that I raised my voice and said, “I don’t know why you’re arguing about this. For God’s sake, you haven’t even fucked me in three months!”

  And at that, he exploded into a rage that was so startling in its intensity that, to this day, I still haven’t been able to unblock all the details. I remember the shock I felt at the vile insults he was hurling at me, I remember being more than just a little terrified and I remember starting to cry.

  When he saw the tears, the verbal rampage stopped but he got a speculative gleam in his eye that scared the shit out of me.

  “Fine,” he said. “You want me to fuck you, I’ll fuck you.” He lunged toward me where I was still frozen on the couch and, grabbing me around the waist, lifted me up with a strength I didn’t know he possessed and tossed me onto my back.

  “Steve,” I begged. “Please. Don’t do this.” When I tried to rise, he pushed me back down with a strong hand to my chest.

  “What’s the problem, Angie? This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

  Despite my protests and fighting him with every ounce of strength I had, he still managed to get my jeans and panties off with very little effort. He freed himself from his own jeans, grabbed both of my wrists in one hand, and held them tightly above my head. Using his knees to spread my legs apart, he forced himself inside of me, cursing at me when it took several painful attempts to achieve penetration.

  The physical pain, the terror, and the most awful feeling of complete and utter helplessness, caused my tears to escalate into full-blown sobbing.

  The crying excited him and, after that point, the details get blurry. I mostly remember the pain and knowing there wasn’t a thing I could do to stop it. I remember worrying because he wasn’t using a condom. And I remember the humiliation when he suddenly pulled out, took himself in hand and climaxed directly onto my face.

  He pushed off of me and, never taking his eyes from me, tucked himself back inside his jeans and said, “Hope you enjoyed that.” And then he walked out my door and I never saw him again.

  I hadn’t shared what had happened with anyone and, when asked, I told people that Steve had simply given me the “it’s not you, it’s me” speech and moved on. This seemed to satisfy their curiosity so I accepted their murmurs of sympathy and left it at that.

  The problem with sharing the intimate details of your life with others, no matter how close you are to them, is that they then consider it their right, or even their duty, to tell you what they think you should do about the things you have disclosed.

  And I wasn’t in a good enough place mentally to have those kinds of conversations, or to make decisions about whether or not I should actually do something about what had happened, so I buried the truth deep, eventually picked up the pieces, and moved forward with my life.

  But because of the lingering fear, I went through a nearly two-year period where I didn’t date anyone. I wasn’t afraid of men, exactly, but I was deathly afraid of the intimacy that dating would eventually lead to.

  I still didn’t understand, at all, what had happened with Steve and I gave it only the smallest amount of headspace before realizing that I probably never would. But it scared me enough, especially when I thought of how much further that violence might have escalated, that I thought it best to just steer clear of men altogether.

  When I finally felt I might be ready to try dating again, I approached it cautiously, going out with several different men, but never more than twice with the same one. If they called a third time, I just didn’t answer the phone. It was childish and unfair to them, I know, but I hadn’t quite let go of the fear and I didn’t want to feel obligated to make explanations or excuses.

  Eventually I met a guy who made me feel some definite yearnings in areas that had felt pretty dead for the previous two years. He was a good person, kind and gentle, and extremely good looking. So, deciding it was time to try to regain at least a little normalcy in my life, I picked him to lead me back into the fold, as it were, and once I relaxed, everything was fine. Sexually, at least. Emotionally was an entirely different story.

  Heaving a big sigh, and knowing I wasn’t going back to sleep anytime soon, I reached over and turned on my bedside light. I knew that I had some serious thinking to do about making changes to the course of my romantic life but, like Scarlett O’Hara, I told myself I would think about that tomorrow.

  I picked up my Kindle from the nightstand and thought this was a perfect time to indulge in my guilty pleasure. A chapter or two of a romance novel and I could go to sleep dreaming of a world where women always found their perfect man and everyone lived happily ever after.

  Chapter 2

  The following day, I walked in to the office, already feeling miffed because it was raining for what seemed like the fifty-third day in a row - and that rain was doing hideous things to my already unruly curly hair – when Frank cut me off at the proverbial pass.

  Frank, the Controller to my Assistant Controller, sauntered up to me and said with a ridiculous amount of urgency, “Are you going to have those quarterly financial statements done today? Jack is asking for them.”

  Jesus Christ. Couldn’t the man at least let me get my jacket off first?

  “Good morning, Frank,” I replied, hoping I managed to keep the snotty out of my tone. “Yes, barring anything unforeseen, they should be on your desk this afternoon.”

  “Make that early this afternoon. I’ll need time to review them before getting them to Jack.”

  I withheld a snort at that. I had worked for Frank long enough to know that the only thing he was going to do with them was sign his name before presenting them to Jack and pretending he had played a large role in their creation.

  “Will do.” I shot him a blindingly sunny smile as I skirted around him and headed toward my cubicle, leaving him free to go spread his particular brand of sunshine over someone else’s Friday.

  Arriving at my desk and assessing my priorities, I hung up my jacket then rummaged through my purse, located a hair clip, and twisted my hair sloppily onto the back of my head. Big hair thus contained, purse stowed away in a drawer, my next priority was definitely coffee. I grabbed my mug and my lunch bag and hurried down the hall to the break room.

  Eyes to the floor, I was mentally preparing a list of everything I needed to do today in order to have the financials done by this afternoon. As I was amending that thought to early this afternoon, I collided rather jarringly with a hard body.

  “Whoa,” Jack said, putting his hands on my shoulders to steady me. “Slow down before you hurt yourself.”

  Laughing, I looked up at all the pretty that was Jack Murphy. He had a classically handsome face and the lean, broad-shouldered body of an athlete. He was just a smidge over six feet tall (that smidge being a half inch – an important fact he was always quick to point out). His dark blonde, almost brown hair was short on the sides, but a little longer on the top, and casual - usually looking like he had towel-dried it and left it to settle wherever it would. His dark blue eyes and striking white smile, when combined with all of the above, ha
d elevated him to near god-like status among the women in the office.

  “Sorry, Jack. I had my mind on those financial statements you need today and wasn’t paying attention.”

  His mouth turned down in a slight frown. “I need those today?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I hear. Frank told me you wanted them this afternoon.”

  I caught a brief eye roll before he stated, “I won’t die if I don’t have them this afternoon, Angie. I’m not worried about it; don’t stress.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate that, but I think they’ll be done today without too much stressing on my part.”

  “Okay, good.” He took a quick look around, then lowered his voice. “Listen. I have something important I need to talk to you about. I’m going to be out most of the day, but can you meet me in my office at five?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Okay, good,” he said again. “And it’s confidential, so don’t mention it to anyone.”

  “Gotcha,” I replied with a saucy little two-fingered salute.

  That earned me a grin and a light punch to the shoulder. “See ya, Ange. Have a fun day.”

  “See ya, Jack, and you do the same.”

  He turned toward his office and I continued on my quest for caffeine. As I entered the break room, I was treated to the sight of Marla, our Accounts Payable Manager, in all of her slutty glory.

  We had a pretty casual office on any given day, but Casual Friday had evolved into a competition of sorts to see who could show up in the rattiest clothes possible. I wholeheartedly embraced the competitive spirit and was, if I must say so myself, a definite forerunner today.

  I was wearing faded jeans with holes in both knees (from wear, not by design) and a long-sleeved black tee shirt that sported a patchy silver Hard Rock Orlando logo. I was positive this shirt would be rejected by Goodwill - and I was further positive they would have rejected it three years ago. I added my favorite beat-up, used-to-be-solid-black ankle boots and I was as comfortable as I was sloppy.

  Marla took an alternate Casual Friday route, wearing a wildly inappropriate outfit consisting of a teal skirt that barely covered her ass, a tight, white spandex camisole that exposed both a massive amount of cleavage and her neon pink bra straps. Her blonde hair was curled, teased, and sprayed to within an inch of its life. She had completed this look with bare legs and stiletto-heeled sandals that, if I knew Marla, probably cost more than she earned all week.

  And she was wearing this outfit in early April. In Michigan. Which is to say it wasn’t exactly warm outside - and her chest was screaming, “brrrrrr”.

  I was considering whether those headlights were her actual nipples or if she had purchased a counterfeit set from wherever one could purchase such things, when she plastered a fake smile onto her heavily glossed lips, looked me over from top to toe and said, “Good morning, Angie - looking good!”

  I mentally rolled my eyes, and appraised her in a similar fashion (sweet Jesus, was that glitter across her chest?). “Good morning, Marla,” I replied, pointedly not acknowledging or returning the insincere compliment. We both knew I looked like I was on my way to clean toilets and she looked like she was on her way to fuck a rock band.

  Marla claimed to have married money. Lots of money. And she claimed this to anyone who would listen. Which made her working at such a relatively menial job for the last ten years even more perplexing.

  She wasn’t a bad person and I didn’t totally dislike her – we were just very different in our lifestyles. She was kind of like champagne and oysters and I was more like beer and nachos.

  But, all that aside, she did her job and she did it well, keeping her nose to the grindstone and mostly ignoring the office horn dogs who sniffed around her cubicle, ogling her always visible breasts.

  “So what were you and Jack whispering about out there?”

  I gave her a confused look while filling my coffee cup and wondering why she thought that might be any of her business. “We weren’t whispering about anything.”

  “You looked thick as thieves to me, and I’m sure I heard the word ‘confidential’. Is something going on?” She whispered this last part while she leaned my way, acting as if we were BFF’s instead of two people who barely tolerated each other for eight hours every day.

  Gritting my teeth, while pretending I wasn’t gritting my teeth, I responded, “No, there’s nothing going on and, honestly, even if there was, I couldn’t tell you. Because it’s confidential.” I stashed my lunch in the refrigerator while she pouted, then left the room, tossing a cheerful “Have a nice day,” in her direction.

  The rest of the morning passed quickly and I was making a pretty good dent in my project, despite Frank’s endless hovering, when my desk phone rang at about 11:45. I picked it up without taking my eyes off of my spreadsheet.

  “Angie Richards,” I said into the phone.

  A deep voice growled back at me. “Aren’t those damn financial statements done yet?”

  Jack.

  “Stop!” I squealed. “You’re stressing me out!”

  He laughed. “Hey, my friend, Luke, is in town and I’m meeting him for lunch; I was wondering if you wanted to come along and finally meet him.”

  Jack and Luke had been close friends since college and, although I’d heard a lot about him over the years, I’d never met him. Mostly because he lived in Ohio and Jack usually only saw him when business took him there.

  “Why?” I asked suspiciously. It wasn’t like Jack to play matchmaker, but this had the feel of a set up.

  “No, no. Nothing like that,” he assured me, as if reading my mind. “He’s going to be coming into the office next week doing some temporary IT work and I thought it would be a good opportunity for you guys to get to know each other. Can you make it?”

  “I don’t know, Jack. You saw me this morning. I’m not exactly looking my best today.”

  “You looked cute,” he lied.

  “No, I did not.” Brushing that aside, I continued, “Besides, I really want to get the union reports out today after I finish these damn financial statements. Which, by the way, if I hear the words ‘financial statements’ one more time today, I am going to sharpen up a pencil and jam it in my ear drum.”

  He laughed again and asked, “You sure you don’t want to come?”

  “I’m sure.” I hesitated, then added, “Unless it’s important to you that I be there.”

  “No, not at all,” he assured me. “It was just a thought. You’ll meet him next week in any case.”

  “Okay. And thanks for the offer.”

  “Sure thing. See ya, Ange.”

  “See ya, Jack.”

  I hung up the phone and turned to see Frank striding purposefully toward my cubicle.

  Oh, God. Not again.

  “Was that Jack?” His question annoyed me since I was sure he had heard the end of that conversation.

  “Yep.”

  “Did he say if he was planning to come back to the office this afternoon?”

  “No, he’s not,” I lied smoothly. I knew Frank would scuttle out early if he thought Jack wouldn’t be there to see him do it. And I was pretty sure Jack wouldn’t want Frank hanging around when there was a mysterious private meeting on the agenda.

  “Are the paychecks ready to go?”

  “Yep. Heather gave them to me about an hour ago.” I reached into my desk drawer and pulled them out. Anticipating his next question, I added, “And, yes, the ones that have to be mailed have already gone out.”

  He gave me a little glare, which I ignored, as I handed the checks over. Frank never let anyone else distribute the paychecks. He acted like it was such an important job, only he could be trusted to do it correctly.

  As he walked away, I was tempted to call out, “You’re welcome” but decided I had pushed my luck far enough for one conversation. Instead, I headed back to the break room, grabbed my sandwich and a bottled water out of the refrigerator and returned to my desk to eat it.


  I was back to my spreadsheet, still chewing the first bite of my sandwich, when Heather, the final member of our little accounting department, appeared at the opening to my cubicle. I wasn’t really surprised that I hadn’t seen her much all morning. She was a nice person, but not really one for socializing.

  “Hey, Angie,” she said as quietly as she said everything. “I was just heading out to pick up some lunch and was wondering if you needed anything while I was out.”

  Typical Heather. Although she was hired by Frank, she was the only employee who reported directly to me. She was part-time, and worked three days a week preparing the payroll. She was sweet and considerate, but very quiet. She was also one of my favorite people in the office.

  We were close in age and were often told we resembled each other. I couldn’t see it, myself, except that we had the same unfortunate hair and were similar in height and general build. She had a bigger chest but, frankly, I had a better ass. If she didn’t have a husband and a small child who took up a lot of her time, we would probably be good friends.

  “Thanks, Heather, but I brought my lunch today,” I said, holding up my sandwich as proof.

  “Okay, well, I’m off then. See you in about an hour. Give me a call if you think of anything you need.”

  “Will do. Enjoy,” I said and returned, yet again, to my spreadsheet.

  The remainder of the afternoon was blessedly quiet, as most Friday afternoons tended to be. The financials were on Frank’s desk, intentionally deposited there when he had stepped away from his office. As predicted, I saw him sneaking out at around 3:30.

  I looked at the clock when I finished the union reports and saw it was already 4:50, so I cleaned up my desk and sat back to wait for Jack.

  Chapter 3

  Jack hurried back into the office at exactly 5:01. He swung by the opening to my cubicle and started apologizing.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting like this; I lost track of the time.”