Sometimes it just could not be understood... When life came to pick a fight, I was never ready. It felt like a thousand Mondays all wrapped into one Thursday. I know thirtieth birthdays are to be loathed but this was ridiculous. I had missed the calling of my alarm clock and was 45 minutes late to work, the second time this week. My boss was forgiving, but he could only be pushed so far.
As I walked through the front door I ducked my head, and made a mad dash to my cubicle. Attache' in hand, I plopped down in my seat to try to regain the breath I had lost rushing up two flights of stairs.
Glancing at the mountainous stack of paperwork piled in my in-box, I got comfortable, preparing to work for the next 6 hours straight. I knew the dead-lines that crowded in on me like so many children rushing after Christmas parade candy. After all, didn't I work best like this?
Hammering away at the reports required of me, my morning slipped away. I did not notice it was two o'clock in the afternoon until my stomach began to growl. Knowing I had to satisfy my hunger, I hurried to the break room upstairs, lest I get nothing accomplished. Waiting for the elevator, my mind wandered, "Why didn't I bother to take care in getting ready this morning? I was already late..."
Elevator doors opening, I saw him. The same guy I had caught staring at me yesterday. His hair was dark and wavy, eyes a cool blue, and his build was nothing short of warrior. The corners of his seraphim mouth turned up just a little, acknowledging me in a way that was almost intimate. I smiled back briefly and joined him in the elevator.
Why the architect felt it necessary to put the employee lounge on the 34th floor I will never understand. It made for a long ride, when ones belly needed nourishment. In this instance though, I was grateful for the time. I turned to my fellow passenger, without making eye contact, I ask him, "So, how's it going?"
He paused long enough to require me to look into his icy eyes and answered, "Unusually slow." "I wish I could claim my day as the same," I said. "My nerves are worn thin from trying to please my boss. I know it is only because his boss is breathing down his neck, but... Oh never mind, you don't want to hear about the B.S. I go through I am sure."
With an innocent grin he replied, "Actually, I would love to hear the problems you are having. Are you going to the lounge?"
"Yeah, I haven't had lunch yet," I explained.
"Great," he said enthusiastically.
Arriving at the 34th floor at the very moment our conversation ceased, I stepped out at his polite gesture for me to go first and found my way to the snack machines. He scoffed at my choice for lunch, saying, "Please, I insist you join me in what I am having. I prepared this last night so it is leftovers, though."
I gratefully acquiesced to his offer, "Thank you."
He went to the refrigerator and retrieved a plastic dish, filled with what looked to be something covered in tomato sauce. Popping his package in the microwave, he turned to appraise me. I don't understand why, but I found it very difficult to look him in the eyes. I stood there squirming, while he inventoried my every physical asset. I am not modest by any evaluation, but his eyes, though glacial in appearance, warmed my flesh and caused me to want to cover myself. I did nothing of the sort, though. Not even cover my breasts by crossing my arms. I found the courage from somewhere deep within and looked into his eyes.
Shocked, I realized I could feel the familiar wetness between my legs, proving I was intensely attracted to him. Still meeting his gaze, the microwave dinged, signaling him to retrieve his dish.
As he turned, I found a seat and settled to share his meal. The smell of garlic and cheese had filled the air, causing my tummy to rumble even louder. He strolled to my choice of seating with a plate of steaming lasagna. My mouth watered, longing for the sustenance he provided. I then noticed he had only one fork and one knife.
My eyes found his arctic orbs and the realization of his intention astounded me. I had never met this man. The only contact that I had with him had been yesterday. I was at the copy machine and he had been on his way out of the office, obviously there only visiting someone, as I had never seen him before.
He began to cut the lasagna in bite-sized pieces and questioned, "So, what type of problems are you having?" Gently scooping the bite onto his fork with the delicious-smelling garlic bread, I readied myself to be fed. The familiarity that this act imposed was almost too much to bear. The tanginess of the tomato sauce and blandness of the ricotta cheese complimented each other in a way that was truly savory.