No, it wasn't love. If anything at all, it was an addiction: maddening, exhilarating, yet very much an addiction. No doubt, I will survive. I will get through this sickening withdrawal, and the day will come when I walk into the office and don't expect to see Zack sitting at my desk, teasing me for being five minutes late.
I've always been five minutes late to work, every single day of the five years at QOL Advertising. Now, I will have to start coming on time just to get over the memory of him, standing from behind the desk in his always neat but affordable-looking suit, taking my designer blazer off, and handing me a cup of coffee, no cream or sugar.
"I read somewhere that people who like their coffee black are more likely to be psychopaths," he threw in casually on his second day of work, broadcasting a most naive smile, not showing any signs of distress of a typical intern.
It was then that I opened my eyes in shocked surprise and looked at him for the first time. Of course, I've looked at him before, but I didn't really see him. I felt nothing when Zack greeted me on his first day; he was merely another intern passing through the ever-revolving doors of the firm.
Taller than average, pleasant to look at, broad smile on his boyish face - that was all that I noted to myself while shaking his hand. Was his palm warm or cold? Was his handshake firm or sluggish? I simply don't remember because it didn't matter. He was just another dandy boy who'd take my efforts to teach him for granted, who'd waste my precious time and be gone in six weeks. So I hardly thought of him as a handsome young man - or even a human being for that matter - just another bullet point in my job description.
He spent much of his first week listening, asking questions when necessary, demonstrating his desire to learn but not coming off as too eager. Unlike most interns these days, he had his cell on silent at all times, safely tucked into his pants pocket.
That back pocket on his ass... It drew my attention more than once, and I'm ashamed to admit it. How could I even let myself be attracted to him, subordinate, a decade younger than me?
It was he who planted the idea in my head, matter-of-factly, as always, over a friendly lunch. Yes, we became friends. Daring and charming, he skillfully pushed professional limits without crossing any lines, and I'd let myself become too friendly too soon.
"I used to date a woman who was a decade older," he said nonchalantly, unwrapping his Philly Cheesesteak sandwich, "but you wouldn't approve of my choice."
"Why?" I asked, not reading too much into the statement. "Because she was that much older than you?"
"No, because she was my boss," he replied, expertly gauging dynamics between us.
"You both could have lost your jobs over that," I muttered, finding nothing else to say.
"Wouldn't have been a big deal," he remarked with a sly grin. "It was just a summer gig. I was a team leader at the camp, and she was the lead counselor."
Silly me! How could I be so stupid as to swallow that bait? Oh no, he wasn't testing my moral principles. He was expertly appealing to my sense of self-perception: I was an older - read more experienced - woman, with some level of control over him.
Was it then that my gaze drifted to his ring finger? No, no wedding band adorned it - he was too young for such commitments, a free spirit unharried by the rush to settle. But there was a little scar right under the knuckle that caught my attention and set my imagination aflame.
As I watched his hand undo the collar of his mauve shirt, I wondered how he got that scar. Did he mishandle a tool? Was it the result of an accidental glass break? Was there a lot of blood?
Suddenly, I pictured a sexy-looking lead counselor taking his bloody hand into hers, pressing white gauze firmly to the cut, assuring him that it was not too deep and would heal nicely. She was probably wearing shorter than appropriate denim shorts, her cleavage somewhat covered by a low neckline t-shirt but pushed up all the way to the chin, some sickly-sweet antiperspirant mixing up with her sweat and making him dizzy.
Maybe, they were a little buzzed, the sweet intoxication heightening their senses. It is so easy to underestimate the effect of a single beer in the heat of a summer night.
Did he kiss her first? No, he's too good to make that mistake. He probably just stood there, silently, impersonating innocence itself, letting her get ensnared by the enticing proximity of his athletic body. And she was sure to cave in.
It wasn't until she told him to take his shirt off that he intended to do so. And then he did it slowly, grasping the collar of his polo and pulling his head through first, then his arms. She couldn't help but fixate on the fine contours of his chest and abs, not overly buff but finely toned. Of course, she lunged forward too quickly. She didn't have time to think. She didn't want to take the time to think. She didn't care about the million reasons she had not to do it.
She closed her eyes the moment he pinned her to the wall and offered her tongue eagerly the moment he forced his mouth onto hers. For a brief second, shame cut through her foggy mind as his nimble fingers touched her down there, but she nipped that useless feeling in the bud, twirling in delight.
He didn't push her down onto the squeaky bed, and there was no table to bend her over. He fucked her right there, from behind, pressing her blood-stained hands to the shabby wall.
"Ski accident," Zack offered unexpectedly and reached for the napkin.
"I'm sorry?" I snapped out of my daydream.
"The scar on my hand? I got it in a ski accident," Zack explained, regarding me with an insightful smile, as if he could unravel the thoughts swirling in my mind.
I saw that smile on his face before, when I touched him for the first time.
He was trying to upload his presentation to the company portal when a pop-up window asked for my credentials. I rose slowly from my chair, expecting him to get up and move out of the way. But he didn't do that! He kept his hands on the keyboard, quite intentionally, it seemed, as if forcing me to make a choice: touch him or redefine the boundaries by asking him to move.
And so I did. I leaned in, my left elbow grazing his arm, my pinky landing on the scar below his knuckle. I felt the subtle warmth spreading across my cheeks, a gentle flush betraying my excitement. It must have been the intensity of cascalone and bergamot in his cologne that made me feel that way.
I imagined him freeing his hand and touching my thigh under the stretch twill skirt. I even rocked my hips a little. I wanted him to raise the stakes! But he didn't. And that's when I noticed that peculiar smile on his lips, as if he was acutely aware of my unspoken desire, which he found quite flattering.
The file finished loading, and I had no choice but to go back to my desk, feeling like an idiot, with unsatisfied yearning between my legs. The craving was so intense that I had to go to the bathroom and stick my hand under my skirt. I wished I were in my bedroom so I could freely indulge in the pleasure. But I wasn't. So I settled for a thirty-five-second rushed release.
That day, I couldn't stop thinking about him even after work. I gobbled up my take-out dinner while proofreading his presentation, took a long shower, and slipped into my bed. I closed my eyes and remembered his earthy smell, softened with the notes of bergamot and cascalone.
I teased myself a little, rubbing my vibrator over my clit in circular motions, then shoved it inside in a sudden and forceful motion, opening my knees wide, yielding to the imaginary pressure of his hips. The muscles inside me clenched, and I felt my back arching. I shoved the vibrator in even further, to the point of discomfort, and imagined Zack whispering into my ear, 'Damn, you are so tight'.
I am pathetic. I can't stop thinking about him even though it's been twelve weeks since he accepted that job offer with our biggest competitor and moved on. A formal handshake and a polite 'thank-you' was all I got in return.
I feel betrayed. And it's not the fact that he jumped ship that makes me feel duped. It is the ease with which he said goodbye, the carefree simplicity with which he turned around and walked away.
Oh god, it's time to move on! What is it about him that I miss so much? It's not his touch because I haven't even known the feeling of his body against mine. Is it his presence in the office? The sound of his resonant voice? Or maybe, it's that elation that I felt catching his coy glance on my ass?
Oh yes, I have done it at least a dozen times. I have assumed that sexy butt-in-the-air pose while pretending to look for something in the file cabinet in front of his desk. And he knew damn well what it was that I was really looking for.
I am pathetic. This morning on my way to work I saw an ABT delivery truck stuck at a traffic light. The guy behind the wheel was young, and hot, and reminded me of Zack. So I couldn't help but stare at him until the traffic light turned green and the truck took off, the note on the side of it laughing in my face, 'Your satisfaction is our goal'.
I am pathetic. I'm stuck in my office at nine-thirty on a Friday night, on a freaking Valentine's day night, simply because I have nothing better to do. No one else, just me and the solitary desk lamp in the twilight of the empty building.
Loneliness... I feel lonely in this room...
