by Anne Wagener
And best of all, the bright, shining jewel amid the grayness of the cubicle: There’s no Sal. There’s no one here I want to dump spaghetti on, only hot accountants I wouldn’t mind making out with.
Seriously, the men here are boiling-lava hot: trimmed hair, light stubble, shoulders that look square under designer suits. It smells good around here, which I couldn’t have said for the airport. People in offices also pretend to be nice, unlike airport passengers. They sign their e-mails with shit like “Have a blessed day” and “Best.”
I’m pulling the staple out of the first set of papers when Alex strolls by, looking killer in a pencil skirt and ruffly blouse. She leans against the edge of my desk. “Hey, girl.”
“Alex!” I try to keep my voice low. It’s very quiet and productive around here. I take in her outfit, her glossy nails and lips, curled hair. “You look fantastic. Feeling better?”
“Getting there.” She crosses one ankle over the other. “You were spot on about Greg. He was never willing to pull his weight. I’m just glad we didn’t go through with it.” She lowers her voice. “Anyway, he wasn’t the greatest in the sack.”
I clap a hand over my mouth to stifle a laugh, and Alex grins at me.
“Thank you so much, by the way.” I gesture to the files looming before me. “It’s good to be employed. Yesterday my car chose to die a Shakespearean death on the Beltway, stumbling dagger-in-chest style across Route 7 to finally pronounce ‘I am slain’ in a random strip mall parking lot. It’s in the shop right now, and I’m waiting for the bad news.”
“Poor thing. I’m glad to help. Hey, I have to run to a meeting, but let’s have lunch sometime this week. My treat.”
Her hips sway lightly as she walks down the hallway, and I catch at least one male coworker glancing after her.
I pick up my unstapled papers and head toward the behemoth scanner, which is unfortunately located right in the middle of a stretch of hallway. I have to scan a batch, walk back to my cube, rename and save the files in the archive folder, collate the last batch, pick up the next batch, move my hot pink Post-it, and go back to the scanner. Lather, rinse, repeat.
Time scratches its nails down the blackboard of my morning. I play a little game of trying not to look at the clock more than once an hour, a game I keep losing. By 10:37, I want to scream. I’ve sold my soul for only $1.27 more per hour than I made at the airport. This job is only good for one thing: compost material for my City Paper article.
I try thinking about Kalil, whom I have a dinner date with tonight, but that doesn’t help. What will we talk about? I hope we have more in common than booze and quarter-life angst. Even the excitement from talking to Charlie has subsided. What am I thinking will happen, that our sing-alongs will inspire him to move back east for me? I need to be realistic. That’s what this job is all about, right? Stark realism. Must. Pay. Bills. In order to create meaning in this universe, I need to eat and get my car repaired.
My mind arcs back to one of my philosophical conversations with Kalil. Maybe I’ll be a Stoic. “Freedom is secured not by the fulfilling of men’s desires, but by the removal of desire.” I do not desire Charlie, who is on the other side of the country. I do not desire a better job, because who knows if good jobs even exist. In this moment, my physical body is imprisoned, but my spirit is free. “Outward things cannot touch the soul.” You thought you had me, degrading jobs, but you didn’t know I had Marcus Aurelius in my back pocket. I’m a Stoic badass!
I step away from the scanner and back right into nice-looking dark-suit guy. My papers fly up into the air, and he grabs angrily at one, catching it midair and shoving it at me. Okay, maybe I have some work to do on the whole Stoic badass thing. It’s a work in progress.
“Watch it!” he says, hurrying away down the hall.
I want to roll my eyes at him. Sorry, Mr. Hotshot. Looking at his watch like the freaking Mad Hatter. I sigh and walk back to my cube, tipping my head onto the desk. The thought of doing this job forty hours a week for the next month makes my stomach churn.
When five o’clock finally comes, my relief is palpable. Walking through the front doors of the firm, I feel as if I’ve entered a different dimension. I’d forgotten that sunshine, fresh air existed.
Since Wulfie’s still in the shop, Alex gives me a ride home; I texted Lin to free him up in case he wanted to head to Steve’s restaurant after work. I close the apartment door behind me, leaning my back against it and frowning as I hear loud music blaring. Loud music in our apartment typically means one of two things. Either 1) Lin is getting some; Or 2) Lin just had a horrible breakup.
I look from the kitchen to the den, but there’s no evidence of Steve. Lin would have cleaned up if Steve were coming over, but our breakfast dishes are still in the sink, coffee grounds scattered on the counter from our morning brew. I continue down the hallway and toss my purse on my bed, looking tentatively across the hall to Lin’s room. His door is open—not good.
Lin is facedown on the bed. Tissues line his bedside, white polka dots of tear-infused paper obfuscating the design of the soft blue rug. All the lights are off, including the paper lanterns strung across the perimeter of the room. He picks up his head, sees me, and sets it back down.
I sit next to him, run a hand through his dark hair, and scratch his back lightly. “What’s going on?”
“Ryan called.” His eyes are still closed.
I keep scratching his back while I wait for him to tell me the rest of the story. Before he can continue, my phone buzzes, and I pull it out of my pocket. Kalil has sent me a text: Can’t wait to see u tonight! We still on for 7?
I take a sidelong look at Lin, the red eyes and nose, the trembling, downturned mouth.
I’m so sorry, I text back quickly. Something came up. Call you later. I flip the phone shut. I feel bad, but Lin comes first. Always.
I wait for him to continue, not wanting to push for details. After a few minutes, he begins to talk. Ryan, aka Evil Ryan, is to Lin what Scott is to me: a heartbreaking jerk-faced bastard. What makes it worse is that Lin is the kind of person who falls hard, who puts his entire self into a relationship, planning elaborate dates and trips. Ryan completely took him for granted, and to boot, he refused to introduce Lin to his parents after six months together. He wouldn’t even tell anyone they were dating.
Ryan hadn’t come out to his family or close friends. Lin had been out for years, had worked through counseling with his family, and didn’t like being forced back into secrecy. It would have been one thing if Ryan were working at all toward coming out. But he seemed content to keep his relationship with Lin a secret.
One night Lin cooked an entire dinner, roast chicken and rosemary potatoes, tomato bisque, the works, set up candles and string lights, only for Ryan to call at the last minute, saying he couldn’t make it. Turned out, he wasn’t sick or having a crisis or anything, he just decided he felt like going clubbing with some friends, among them an ex-girlfriend. Lin was devastated and broke things off soon after. But sometimes Ryan still calls casually, throwing Lin into an emotional tailspin for a day or so. I can sympathize. I think if Scott called me, I’d be prostrate, too. Ugh—Scott. I shoo the thoughts of him away and turn my attention back to Lin, who is sniffling.
“The worst part is, Steve planned a really nice night for us, dinner and an art show, and I was hoping he could stay over and meet you. But I called and canceled on him. I can’t let him see me like this. Things have been going so well. I didn’t want to start unpacking the baggage.”
I don’t know what to say, but I know what to do. “I’m going to make you dinner,” I whisper, heading into the kitchen. Before I get out any ingredients, I grab a bottle of cleaner and attack the mess. I even bust out the vacuum. Then I stand on the black-and-white-checked floor, puttering around and peeking in cupboards, finally settling on spaghetti, meatballs, and garlic bread for dinner. Carbs solve everythi
ng.
We end up drinking an entire bottle of wine and watching The Devil Wears Prada. By the end of the night, we’re both feeling a bit better. I’ve practically forgotten the degradation of standing in the middle of an office hallway like a fool while smart, hot math people dash around me to meetings. I’ve set my sights again on Stoicism, though when I mention it to Lin, he tries not so successfully to stifle a giggle. Instead, he says, “Mmm, that sounds nice,” and takes a sip of wine.
By the time we’re getting ready for bed, Lin seems mostly back to himself, and I encourage him to call Steve. I can hear him laughing from down the hall. I sigh, relieved, and then realize—I never called Kalil! I try his number, but he doesn’t answer. I guess it’s on the late side. Maybe he’s mad at me for breaking the date and then not calling. Oh well. It was a night of broken dates. I’ll worry about Kalil tomorrow, when I have hours and hours of scanning to overanalyze. Except I won’t do that, because I’m a Stoic now. Right.
Seventeen
Why am I wearing a wrinkled button-down shirt? I look like a bad impression of a yuppie. Lin was out with Steve when I was getting dressed, that’s why. He would have saved me from this disaster of an outfit. I close my eyes and remember that I was reading one of Alex’s women’s magazines at lunch: “Got a hot date? Wear a V-neck or button-down shirt to make him think about how he wants to undress you.”
For someone who’s smooth—Alex, for example—this could have been well executed. I tore apart the closet to find the only button-down I own, a hand-me-down number from my cousin Mathilda. It’s white with black stripes, ergo, I look like a zebra. One should never wear hand-me-downs from one’s cousin Mathilda. But I was lured in by the Siren’s call that stripes are slimming.
“You okay? You look like you’re somewhere else completely.” Kalil has a shy smile on his face. He’s wearing a button-down shirt, too. Dark blue. Unbuttoned just enough to reveal a peek of toned chest. He’s pulling off the button-down much better than I am.
I flush. “Sure, sorry. Just a little tired from work.”
He swings his car into a parking spot at Maggiano’s and rushes around the side of the car door to open it for me. With our shared context of the airport gone, an almost tangible awkwardness settles between us. I think about him leaning toward me outside the bar that night last week. The soft touch of his lips on mine hardly seems real. Could that have happened?
He looks different in dress clothes. I mean, I was attracted to him when he was wearing a bright yellow parka. And now he looks positively delicious. His sleeves are rolled up mid-forearm, revealing a leather cuff around his left wrist. I get a sudden urge to slide it off and run my forefinger and middle finger down the inside of his naked wrist. These are the parts I love on men: the soft parts. Earlobes. Insides of wrists. Elbow creases.
The high-ponytailed hostess seats us at a romantic table for two in the corner, tea lights flickering between us. In lieu of conversation, we examine paintings of Venetian and Florentine scenes on the walls. They look like hotel room art, but I feign fascination. In one of the Venetian scenes, a man in a striped shirt paddles a couple down the canal. I look more like the gondolier than the ragazza in the red dress. Her lover is ignoring the Venetian canalscape—he’s got eyes only for her. What’s her secret? Aha! She’s wearing a V-neck. Totally should have gone with a V-neck.
I fumble through the wine order, and when our drinks finally arrive, we stare at each other over the tops of our glasses. An Italian tenor serenades us over the speakers.
I take a sip of wine. “So, um, I’m really sorry about canceling on you the other night, my friend kind of really needed someone, and—”
Kalil shrugs. “Don’t worry about it. I understand.”
I twirl my wineglass between my thumb and pointer finger.
“How’s he doing?” Kalil asks.
“He’s fine now. Just a blast-from-the-past sort of thing. A relationship of his that ended badly.”
Kalil nods. The awkwardness is precipitating in the air: Little dust particles of it shower us, and I can see some landing about the breadbasket. Great conversation topic I’ve started here: failed relationships. Blimey! The more I try to think of things to say, the blanker my mind becomes. A giant scanner is all I’ve got up there, running its light back and forth across fading pages.
“Holy shit!” Kalil jumps up, his chair skidding backward and nearly toppling over.
“Huh?” I look him up and down, confused.
“Oh my God, oh my God!” he says, pointing at his wineglass with the leather-cuffed hand.
“What?” I lean forward to examine the glass.
“Don’t touch it!”
I squint—it’s hard to see much detail in the relative dark. But as I focus on the spot where he’s pointing, the flickering tea light reveals a dime-sized shape scampering across the base of his wineglass. A closer look reveals spindly legs emerging from the body. A cockroach. I push my chair back. “Gross!”
We watch in silence as the thing changes direction, its little roachy legs ambling toward the center of the table. I gasp. “It’s going for the breadbasket!” I whisk the basket out of the roach’s path and clutch it to my chest.
“Nice one!” Kalil nods in approval at my heroism. I grin, and our eyes lock. A moment passes, and we start laughing. The roach is now halfway up the stem of Kalil’s glass, about to baptize itself in tannins. I’m still holding the breadbasket, and tears are starting to form in my eyes, I’m laughing so hard. Kalil is doubled over on the other side of the table, one arm grasping the back of his chair for support, the other wrapped around his stomach.
The waiter comes dashing over, his eyebrows furrowed. “Is there a problem?” He follows my gaze to the table, and when he sees the roach, his entire face turns the color of the peppers on the shelf behind his head. He apologizes in Italian and English while ushering us to another table.
“On the house,” he says as he places new wineglasses in front of us. I set down the breadbasket at our new table as we catch our breath.
“Holy crap,” Kalil says, one hand still wrapped around his stomach. “I guess you know one of my phobias now. That’s embarrassing.”
“It’s cool. I’m lucky; my roommate kills all the bugs in our apartment.” I make a face. “There’s this vent right above my bed, and the other night this jumpy spider cricket thing fell out of it onto—”
Kalil looks like he’s going to throw up.
“Sorry. We can change the subject now. So tell me how you’ve been! What’s new at the airport?”
He begins talking about last week’s rain and delays—“a bona fide suckfest”—and we click back into our familiar rhythm. I fill him in on the Mad Hatter accountants and my latest bride client.
We sip our wine: It’s doing the trick. The day’s tension has loosened from my neck and shoulders, and I lean forward on the table, propping my chin in one hand. He starts looking at me meaningfully. By the time we’re walking out of the restaurant, he’s linking his arm through mine and leaning against me. Memories of Charlie keep playing on a shadow screen at the back of my mind, muted by alcohol.
“Oh my God, I’m still thinking of you going for the breadbasket,” Kalil is saying. “Those are some lightning reflexes.” We laugh, and he gets that look again. As we approach his car, he faces me, pushing me lightly against his car door.
“I’m not ready for the night to be over yet,” I whisper, nearly wincing as I realize that a few weeks ago, Charlie said the exact same thing to me. I focus on Kalil’s face, noticing anew the way his long eyelashes graze the tops of his cheeks when he blinks. His pupils look huge as he gazes down at me. All I want is to lean in to him and kiss him, let the general confusion of my life melt away. I want to be in my body and not my mind, to let go of the stress of scanning documents and shopping for brides and pining for Charlie.
Kalil loops an arm
around me, pulling me to him. “That can be arranged. My place?”
I nod, putty in his hands. He walks me to the passenger side of the car and opens the door. Before he starts the engine, we kiss to the soundtrack of the summer rain hitting the sunroof. I’m time-traveling to when we’re alone at his place.
As he navigates through dark, rainy streets, he reaches over and takes my hand. “The airport’s not the same without you.”
I squeeze his hand. “In some ways—and I never thought I’d say this—I wish I were still there. I mean, there’s no one to chat with at the accounting office except Alex, but she’s super-busy. Mostly I’m by myself all day at the scanner, standing in the hallway like a total douche canoe.”
“Poor thing. But I don’t quite feel sorry for you. Now, if the scanner were outside in the rain, and you had to dodge the lightning, then I could relate.”
He pulls up to an apartment complex, parks, and comes around to my side of the car with an umbrella.
“So chivalrous,” I say, and he bows.
We head up the stairs to the second-floor unit he shares with his brother, Aamir. “I don’t think he’ll be here. It’s poker night.”
“And you skipped that? For me?”
“Why play cards when I can be with the Queen of Hearts?”
“You know you’re a total cheeseball, right?”
“Is it working?”
I nod slowly. Up-down, up-down. The world orbiting my head. I’m at that perfect point between tipsy and drunk where I’m alert enough to enjoy the moment and relaxed enough to toss a pillow over the yapping mouths of the Greek chorus of doom in my head.
He leads me into the dark apartment, our fingers interlaced. Before he turns on the light, I fall in to him, planting kisses indiscriminately across any piece of flesh I can reach. I snap off the leather cuff and hold the inside of his wrist to my mouth, feeling his pulse against my lips.