Prologue
"No, please. After you." Eric spoke to a stream of faces uninterested in his words.
It wasn't the first time, and far from it. Eric stood there while people shuffled onto the elevator ahead of him, half awake and oblivious to his existence. He shrugged it off, even if it happened to him all too often. He took solace in his title, in his work, in his prestige. He stepped off at the penultimate floor of the building: a high rise, downtown, city center. Rarified air where an elite few were entrusted to an inner circle of a top-tier firm. They kept the numbers straight, across divisions sprawling with teams whose mistakes they cleaned up. Eric was the straight and narrow: not a penny out of place. Always professional, always punctual, always precise. All discipline, no impulse. His career's meteoric rise left time for few other pursuits, not that he had much success elsewhere. Athletics were the farthest thing from his calling. His social life was a vacuum. And what fleeting interactions he had with women were... hollow at best.
He often found himself introspecting, almost in conversation with himself. A vivid, vibrant inner dialogue that kept him company as he surgically solved other's lesser work. This was just another one from the pile. Another budget gone awry. And yet, given the altitude at which he operated, he was surprised to see a name he'd never seen before: Jennifer Comely. He spent a good minute looking at it. In part, he was perplexed that he couldn't place the name. His mind raced around the mental image of the company org chart, unable to spot this newcomer. He dropped his gaze back to the page... department: Marketing. A lowly marketing budget that made its way to him? Ah, but it has multiple bigwig sponsors. That tracks. He returned his focus to her name... such a peculiar family name at that. His objectivity rushed back to the forefront as it always had, sobering him to the task: review her budget & flag what needs fixing.
As he completed his summary, he began drafting his message to her. On paper, her title was legions lower than his. As he began to write to her what she would need to change in order to get her budget approved, he couldn't help but feel a foreign twinge take hold. He'd written countless messages to countless faceless female colleagues. Yet, this time... a temptation reverberated through him. He wanted to put a face to the name. What's the harm in that? Innocent enough to want to know who you are dealing with. He turned to his Slack, the company chat tool, to pull up her profile picture.
The photo itself was corporate, cold, and unflattering. In spite of that: she was ravishing. A lion's mane of hazel hair draped across a face that he felt perfectly paired a girl next door's approachable warmth to that timeless, classical beauty only the rarest models possess. He couldn't help but reach for that dated trope, as his penchant for numbers overtook him.
She was a ten, through and through.
He stared for the better part of fifteen minutes before realizing how ridiculous he must have looked. He scolded himself: how ridiculous he was. "Get it together", that inner voice chided. He forced himself back into the few words that remained from his message. With the relief that he managed to come down from that unexplainable spell, he breathed a quiet sigh of relief as he completed the task, and almost with a sense of triumph he said aloud to himself, "Sent."
--
Ch. 1: First Encounters
Jennifer was amusing herself texting a new suitor. Just then, a ping shattered that playful silence. An email drifted into view. Finance. She rolled her eyes. This couldn't be good. Some dry dolt had taken issue with her project: something about supporting documents, approval processes. Halfway through a cursory read, her patience vanished. She knew it was a risk, but she was fed up with looking at screens anyways. A few quick clicks, and found where the sender's office was located.
"Eric", she read, "he would be an Eric".
She stood and walked over to the elevator. As the doors opened, she realized that her key card did not grant her access to Eric's floor. Inside though, an older heavyset man stood there with a half smile, ogling her with a vile entitlement. Silent, slimy gawking.
She had no time to put this vermin in its place. She did what she does all too well, and returned a charming grin his way. He became putty. The words smashed into one another fumbling out of his mouth, "I, you, hi, I mean: aherm, sorry-- Hi, I'm Ron." Too easy. She looked at him, shifting her chin ever so slightly, in doing so giving her hair a gentle toss over her shoulder.
"Hi Ron. I am going to the 52nd floor." she said, her words doused with expectancy.
