Do Not Respond

by M R Field

  I scrunch my nose and scan the email message, my eyes narrowing on the response. I huff in disgust as a patch of bright yellow captures my attention. Oh, get over it, arsehole. He sent it back with a spelling error of mine, proofed and highlighted. That sanctimonious BOD (Bag of Dicks). Not like you’re perfect. You wear Lycra to cycle, for shit’s sake. One cannot unsee that mini marsupial your lycra shorts can’t hide. You aren’t a human compass.

  I am obviously not sane of mind, working for such a knobhead, but I am determined not to fail. I know what I am doing, and it gives me a morbid joy to think he sees so too, seeing as I am still sitting in this office, almost two years after my initial interview. Plus, the view of the city is pretty cool to focus on when I’m not imagining pushing him out of the high-rise window.

  I’m not hopeless; my determination matches his stubbornness. I work hard and meet his demands—even surpass them. I’m going to work this job until my art finally takes off and I can paint a massive dick on his office wall. Or make a sculpture of one.

  Thankfully, I have the best coping strategy for dealing with Cole. As my regular outlet is art, I can’t necessarily smash out a mosaic or churn a vase on a pottery wheel every time Cole gives me shit. My anti-dickhead regime needs a more accessible outlet.

  Before reading the rest of the email, my fingers automatically open a new message. I quickly type my own email address in the “To” field and follow through with an idea my friend Jaz gave me over coffee after my first week working with Cole.

  “You write an email but you never respond. It’s a ‘Do Not Respond.’ Put DNR, and then forget about it. Don’t waste anymore brain space. Empty your head and don’t turn back. Ever.” She added, “It’ll help you keep your cool and not lose your job!”

  “He’s not getting rid of me yet!” I challenged.

  Those emails became my coping mechanism for working with such a demanding fool.

  I scan my ranty email for anything I’ve missed before I look again to Cole’s response and read the rest of his demands. He never writes his emails like a regular guy. Instead, I am reminded yet again about something I missed that is highlighted, and I add this to my DNR. His criticisms become whining posts for my own email. I let the frustration go as I type: Stupid blue eyes. Stupid muscled forearms. Stupid scruffy chin. You never had a goatee before now. Hope you itch like crazy.

  After returning to his email and surveying the list of jobs that he wants done, an additional message arrives where he’s added a few others.

  Leticia,

  Prepare the sketches on the table for the meeting with Mr. Macaro, and leave them in the folder. As I already asked.

  I’d like a latte, but tell the barista to make it extra hot with an extra shot. Last time, you practically got me decaf. Grab it before the next meeting. I’ll be back at 10 a.m.

  Cole.

  “A ‘please’ wouldn’t kill you, arsehole,” I mutter under my breath, as my eyes lift and scan the room. I have twenty minutes until he arrives, and my hands curl in frustration. My nerves simmer as I begin to run my fingers along the keys, trying to ease the building tension.

  I continue with my email, indignantly, to myself.

  When the fuck did I ever become Superwoman? Give a girl some time to get tasks done, you idiotic dictator.

  I double check the fields to see my address and the subheading of DNR, and click send, taking a deep breath to help clear the tension before I walk to the coffee shop. Watching the email reappear in my DNR folder, I take out my spray bottle from my desk and quickly spray my lucky bamboo plant again, thinking about my sister, who had it delivered to me on my first day. Hope her boss isn’t making her crazy right now. I am going to need a touch of luck to avoid becoming crazy myself.

  The door opens, and I tense, until I see Steve and Nige arrive. I smile as they greet me, and my sour mood deflates slightly. I stand and retrieve from my desk the sketches for the scheduled meetings, and I place them on the oak table for Cole to use. Walking over to the table, I fan out the sketches while reaching behind to the shelf to retrieve the folder.

  The boys linger by their desks, getting ready for the day, as they continue their chatter. I adore these guys. They made working with Imperial-Overlord-of-Dicks so much easier and more rewarding.

  “I’m off to get coffees. Do you boys want anything?” Reaching to the side of my desk to grab my bag, I narrowly miss bumping my head. A trait I inherited from my mother is a knack for being a klutz. It’s beyond me how she manages to be a composed lawyer in the courtroom, never tripping over her heels. Yet, at home, she can end up dropping half our dinner. My stomach grumbles, and I snatch my bag quickly, remembering that I forgot to eat breakfast. Straightening to get the orders from the boys, I jot them down on my phone while I shoot off a quick text to Theo, knowing he’s not too far behind, so I can collect his order too.

  Leaving the office and heading to the elevators, I take the lift to travel down the twenty-seven stories to ground level. It took me a good couple of weeks to not feel like I was going to upchuck heading in and out of the office. This lift is a brutal bitch and takes no prisoners.

  In true Melbourne fashion, the symphony of urban traffic comes to life once the doors open. I cross the well-lit foyer to the outside revolving doors. This city is my home, in all its mismatched glory. From the erratic drivers who use road rules sparingly to the unpredictable masses of people, you never know who’ll pass you by in this chaotic but beautiful frenzy.

  I quickly cross the road to the well-known alleyway that hosts some pretty awesome cafés. The flirty barista at my favourite café, Tom, whom I dated for a few months recently, is my latest obstacle to conquer. He tried to win me back, with his incessant flirting, but that ship had sailed. I just want my freaking coffee, sans the winks. If I am going to date for the long term, there has to be some sort of spark—or at least a change in body temperature. Tom didn’t even get my motor going when he had the chance. Poor Tom—the only heat he gave me was in my caramel latte, and I didn’t have to fake enjoying that.

  While I dodge the longing looks from Tom, Cole didn’t seem to have any girl on his radar. He seems practically asexual with his lack of emotion. There’s no way he’d share his bed with someone who wasn’t made of carbon fibre. Like his zillion-dollar bike. I see this eyesore in the undercover garage every morning as I walk past his beloved Cervélo. It's worth more than anything I own, yet that doesn’t stop me from obnoxiously ringing that stinking bell when I pass it after work each night.

  I make my way to Tom’s café to get the coffees and a quick bite to eat at my desk. Last thing I need is a hungry stomach while typing up the minutes.

  I love the look of this place. It is a narrow café that has vintage travel posters of Europe on the walls. A long, black, narrow bench stands against the wall, with red bar stools underneath it. There is no way a little breakup is going to stop me from coming here—hopefully. I move closer to the bench where current magazines lay, and I see a familiar insignia on a comic book. TTE. I smile.

  My workmate, Theo, is a super-secret graphic novel artist who is slowly becoming more popular. I open up the recent novel and quickly thumb through the pages, despite owning this copy. I respect the talent and time it takes to produce something of such high quality. His ideas are fantastic, but they are all in vain for now. He’s created a dystopian love story, an ode to his best friend, Trinity, who doesn’t have a clue. I've met her a few times at a couple of after-work drinks sessions, when Theo bothers to turn up. Seeing their banter, there is definitely a spark. They could light up the floor. But they both sit on the fence, the fools. I am going to push their heads together if they don’t sort out their crap soon.

  I’m relieved that Tom is behind the coffee machine so I can order without any awkward conversation. I give him a quick wave after I place my order and swiftly move to the side. A flash of colour grabs my attention, and I see Maggie, an old friend from college, by the bar. Her bright lips widen in surpris
e as she sees me.

  “Oh! Letty!” She waves as she stands by the register. She places her order and then rushes over, pulling me into a tight embrace. “Oh, my gosh! Are you eating? You’re skin and bones!”

  I giggle as she releases me slightly, her hands resting on my forearms. I know I’m anything but. I’m not slender, but rather curvy. I shake my curls and step back slightly to take her in.

  “You’re still just as gorgeous, my friend.” My eyes trail up and down her body, dressed in a tight vintage dress with a thick white pearl necklace. She looks like a a proper 1950s housewife.

  “I’m serious.” Her hand brushes mine, and I remember how touchy-feely she is. “You look different. Are you still hammering into those pallets? I remember you hassling those factories to sell you some.”

  “Oh, those! I made a few bookshelves, but now I’m working on a few canvases that I print and then paint on. I’m selling a few at a gallery downtown, while also working for an architect, just up there.” I point in the direction of our office.

  “Honey, that’s such a waste. You should just be doing your art.” Her lips curl into a frown as I see Tom signal eagerly that my order is ready.

  I ignore Maggie’s look of pity; I’ve been enjoying my projects. I quickly move to the bench to grab the coffee tray, and I smell the crepe that is nestled in the middle. Heaven. A good distraction.

  “I’m doing all right, actually,” I stammer, swallowing my nerves. “I’m working enough to pay the bills and my college debt, and the rest will be gravy once that’s sorted.”

  “Well, you need to get out there more, as you have the talent.” She shuffles past me for a moment to retrieve her coffee, and then stands close to me again. “I have a friend who owns a gallery in Southbank and is looking for some pieces with a bit of edge. You could broaden your audience. How about I give you my card, and you call me if you’re interested?” Her spare hand frees a business card from the side pouch of her bag, and she places it next to my crepe. “We’ll talk soon. Send me more info on that gallery of yours, too. I’ll pop in some time and see your beautiful work.” She winks and strolls past me, and a spark of excitement flickers in my chest. I follow after her, but “The Imperial March” from Star Wars sounds from the phone in my pocket. I rest the coffee tray on the bench to the side and quickly answer my phone.

  “Hello, Letty spea—”

  “Have you gone to Brazil to fetch my coffee, Leticia?”

  “No, sorry, I’m on my way back. I ran into a friend and …” I jam the phone between my ear and shoulder and grab the tray, balancing my coffee in the middle while moving quickly down the street, weaving through the crowds of people.

  “I don’t have time to hear the Reader’s Digest version of why you’re late. My appointment will be here in ten minutes. Move.” He hangs up, and I scatter across the street, barely making it to the other side without tripping. He is riding my arse over nothing.

  I race to the lifts and elbow the button, all the while feeling inspired to create something for Maggie’s friend. Pity that all I’m seeing right now is a dick sculpture to put on a certain someone’s desk.

  Cole

  How fucking hard is it to get coffee? I slam my phone down on my desk and lean back in my chair, my movements tense with frustration. Running my fingers along both arm rests, I consider the time that I sent her an email. The read receipt tells me she saw it. I gave strict instructions to have it here by the meeting. Dennis is a ball breaker, and I want to be ready. After all this time, she is still as sporadic as she was a child.

  “Cole, I’ll jump off this cliff face if you do.” She pulls her tank over her head, and I walk in front of her to hide my body’s reaction to her. A morning spent away from her still didn’t stop me from wanting to seek her out. The unbelievable attraction still draws me to her, but she is too young. It is getting harder and harder to stay away. Maybe I could spend time with local girls my age or Odette, who is fun to be around, but no one compares to Letty.

  Letty tugs at my elbow and giggles, her hair tickling my shoulder before I grab her hand and we jump into the ocean. Like a hapless fool, I was always sailing right beside her into the depths of the sea, eager to explore and watch her face light up in wonder. Willing to follow her anywhere.

  And then one of the best afternoons of my life turned into my worst, plunging me into my own personal guilt-ridden hell.

  I tilt back suddenly and my arms flail, until I can correct my posture. Brad smiles at me, and I shake my head, relieved that the other guys didn’t see, and remember for the tenth time why I need to get a new chair. I look up at the wall clock again and frown. Maybe that barista held her back. Tom. He’s probably trying to woo her again through his pathetic attempts at romance, writing poetry in his dirty coffee-stained notebook. I’m surprised she even gave him a chance. The same heaviness lines my stomach, but I remind myself I have no right to be jealous. She can date whomever she wants, even though they’ll never be good enough for her.

  She is beautiful, with mouth-watering curves, and her blonde ringlet hair would have most guys giving her their number, but her blue eyes are what grab your attention and keep you locked in. They show her delicate soul. Yet, when they look at me, she loses that vulnerability. Instead, I swear, if she put her mind to it, her eyes could shoot a laser through me.

  She is so different now from the way she was when we were kids, but glimmers of her old personality pop up now and then. Leticia stiffens like a board if someone who she doesn’t know moves in to kiss her cheek. She isn’t the kind to flirt and lead people on, yet her presence carries a natural allure. She’s untouchable, yet I desire to touch her. Her ruby red lips, curvaceous waist, and short blonde curls all make constant appearances in my fantasies. The same curls shake when she is frustrated at her desk—frustration that I know is often caused by me. I fucking love that.

  She is my beautiful distraction. An amazing and talented woman who drives me to insanity and leaves me hanging on for more. Yet, in all my stolen glances, her beauty and her nature remind me of the girl I was once close to. The guilt of how poorly I treated her weighs heavily on me. Once again, reality tells me that it’s too late to hope for more.

  I lean forward and reach for my iPad and pen on my desk. Slipping the pen into my shirt pocket, I check my desk for anything else that I might need, while looking toward the table. Well, at least she has done something that I requested. The folders look professional on the table, just how I like them. Precision at its utmost.

  It had been a pipe dream I had with my dad to run a company with him. I grew up watching him sketch designs, and having the same talents and interests made us closer. With him tragically taken away before his time, I poured everything into developing my own company. There is no way I will sacrifice that for a set of bouncy blonde curls and deep blue eyes. I already risked too much, giving her a chance when asked to. The temptation has to remain just that—temptation. She has to be just Leticia, who ticks all the professional boxes. She can be nothing more, nothing else. But fuck, do I ever love pissing her off. I have to hold onto that. The fire in her eyes is the only thing I allow myself to feel around her. I’ve had many fantasises of bending her over the photocopier in hate-sex to warrant hours later spent on my bike, releasing the pent-up energy those fantasies create. I’ve never been so fit in my life, until these past two years. I stopped racing years ago, but I’m sure I’d give my competitors a run for their money if I joined them at the starting line once more.

  The boys begin to shuffle toward the meeting table, and I rise to join them, retrieving my suit jacket from the hook behind me and putting it on. The open space here means that my team and I can work together and, as it turns out, we are a pretty decent team. Steve and Nige have been with me from the start, and Brad joined us a year later. My graduate, Theo, has only been with us for eight months, but he impresses me. He is a reserved worker, but his clever insight is on par with that of guys I’ve known in the industry for ten years.
He is a quiet achiever, yet has been noticed in a few projects and now has one client who has specifically requested him. He seems to get along with Leticia well, so he's obviously passed her “not a serial killer” test. I’d nearly bet my company that I don’t pass the test, and that she has the results showing how much of an arsehole I am.

  I take the main seat in front of the folders and place my iPad next to it. All the architectural specification printouts are measured and ready to present, so the client can bring them to the council for approval after our meeting. But the calculations are all AutoCAD, thus the iPad is needed. All that is missing is my fucking coffee. I can’t handle Dennis without it. I am just about to email her from my iPad when a loud thud sounds across the room.

  I look up. Leticia stands with her elbow pushing open the door, what looks to be a half-eaten crepe hanging between her teeth.

  Her hair wisps around her face as she rushes around ungraciously, handing out the coffees, knowing full well that Dennis will be prompt. He likes to use his hour to ball-bust us as much as possible. Her bright eyes search the room to check all orders before she rushes over to me and dumps the coffee tray next to my elbow. I click the pen in my hand, eyeing the drops that have split on the table top. Her free hand grabs the crepe, and she tears off a huge bite. She then uses her chin to direct my eyes to the drink tray.

  “Take it,” she says through a mouthful. I look inside to find a few coffee-stained napkins and frown, but I don’t have any time to get anything else. It’ll have to do.

  “I should get you to wipe this whole table down,” I mutter as I wipe the coffee away. She huffs, and a waft of cheese floats in my direction as she moves back to her desk.

  “Sorry for the spill, but I had napkins, so it’s all sorted. It’s just a drop. Easily fixed.”

  “Being on time is easy, too. If you were here ten minutes ago, perhaps I wouldn’t be here wiping up your mess.” I scrunch the napkin in my hand, tossing it in the bin behind me, and lift up my coffee. “Is this what I ordered?”