I'm struggling to focus - minimizing another handful of nonsense websites and pulling back up the statements I 'm supposed to be editing. My computer's glow is a window of white in the increasingly dark 25th floor. Shut up and get it done, I tell myself, drawing a deep breath and straightening up in the rolling chair. There's no manacle on my leg, no bars on the doors, but this office has always had a way of making me feel captive all the same. Rows of empty desks and bouncing screensavers sit beneath the ticking clock, whose longest hand waves in leisurely, torturous circles. A few rows over, the scrape of Jenna's chair against the carpet breaks the still air.
"You want a drink?" she says over her shoulder, headed toward the break room. Her green jacket stops just above her waistline and I find myself watching her hips rock under her cotton dress as she walks. Beneath it, I can see the faint outline of her underwear, an arc starting high on her hips and disappearing in the middle of her grey cotton curves.
"Sure," I call back, turning my eyes back to the screen. It's not a huge company, and even thought we only sit a few rows apart, I wouldn't say I know much about Jenna. You can make small talk with someone everyday and still know nothing about them. I guess there were a few things - I remember introducing meeting her boyfriend at the holiday party, the retention project she was leading that completely bombed, and I remember seeing her out on Houston St., but don't know if she ever saw me. I hardly recognized her then. She was dressed in tight jeans and a red top, leaning on a lamppost, face buried in her phone outside some dive bar.
"I thought you might be the type - no beer left," she says, setting a high ball glass at the corner of my desk.
"That looks like the end of productivity," I reply, dragging it over to watch three fingers of whiskey roll and lap against its sides. The pour she gave herself is just as generous, I could see.
"Cut the shit," she laughs, jabbing a finger at the chat windows and pages peaking from behind the documents I'd been staring blankly at. "Those a project you're working on?"
I stopped doing any actual work an hour ago, but somehow I was still in that chair, going through the motions. She saw right through it – maybe because she was doing the same thing.
"You should report me," I say, taking a slow sip. I try not to pull a face as it burns down my throat. "Rough day?"
"No more than any other," she says, retreating to her desk. Her fingers clatter on the keyboard for a moment before she looks up again. "And you?"
I shrug, falling back into the chair and letting my eyes wander over her features. The computer illuminates her features in the darkness– her thick, dark hair falling over her shoulders and a single, unruly curl dangling in her eyes. I've seen her lose her cool only a handful of times, when those brown eyes sharpen and her orderly white teeth clamp down to keep her mouth from saying things she might regret. I don't blame her. Really, it makes me like her more.
"What are you working on?" she asks after a few minutes.
I drop my eyes, afraid to be caught watching her.
"Other than this?" I hold my empty glass up. "You keeping up?"
I hear the ice cubes slosh as she drains the rest of hers. She holds the glass aloft, waving it at me. "Your turn."
"Yea, fine," I mumble, making my way to the break room to find the whiskey sitting on the countertop beside the fridge. Matching the height of the first round, I frown at how much of the bottle is already gone. This might be a painful morning.
"Ice, please."
Startled by sound of her voice in the doorway, I nearly drop it.
"A bit jumpy, aren't you?" she leans over my shoulder, the very edge of her body resting against mine. "It's been a long day," she adds, topping off both glasses.
We both rest back against the counter, looking up at the plain, round clock. It's 10pm, and we'll both be back through the doors at 7.
"You still seeing?..." she asks.
"Sarah? Not anymore, no. You still with, uh, Ben?"
"Brad," she corrects me. "Ex-Brad."
"Well cheers," she finally says aloud, leaning towards me. "To freedom...or something like that."
"Something like that," I echo.
Back in the main room, we sit in silence again. The whiskey has settled in, like a warm blanket, and I'm actually getting a few things done, but I can't help stealing glances up to see if she's looking back at me too.
"Sounds like you're still pretending to work," she calls over.
"More than you."
