Claire knew it was three-forty. She knew because she had just checked the clock a few seconds ago, but she looked anyway. It was three-forty.
She had already closed what she'd been working on, so she opened a couple of spreadsheets to clutter the screen. She picked a paperclip - a fancy one with a red no-slip plastic coating - from the magnetic dispenser to the right of her phone and un-bent it to an approximation of straight. She tapped the thin, red, plastic and steel shaft against the temple of her glasses as she permitted herself another look at the clock: three-forty-five. She sighed. She put the ruined paperclip down on her desk. Her hands were shaking.
She looked at the clock: still three-forty-five.
Marta walked into the room holding her coffee with both hands and sipping at it gingerly through the steam. Claire marveled at how Marta could drink coffee so late in the afternoon. She liked to imagine that Marta needed the caffeine to keep alert during the day because each night she sank into a secret world of exhausting vice: a drinking problem, a heroin addiction, a fight club. It would have pleased Claire to no end to discover her boss had a dark side.
"Did you get those signatures on that thingy for Abe?" asked Marta.
"Yes. It's out with the courier."
"Good."
"Hey, I'm leaving at four today..." she glanced at the clock, it was now three-forty-eight. "But I was thinking of just cutting out now."
Marta shrugged, "I guess ten unproductive minutes won't kill us. What're your big plans again?"
Claire stalled, what was the lie she'd used? "I'm watching my sister's kids," she said, remembering her excuse.
"Oh," said Marta, looking a little suspicious. "The way you seemed about ready to fidget out of your chair all day I thought you might have a hot date."
Claire could feel herself blush. "No, Dave and I are done. For good this time," she said truthfully. She had thoroughly burned her bridges.
"There are other guys besides Dave, Claire."
Claire screwed up her face and shrugged. She hated dating: the phoniness, the awkwardness, the boredom.
"How old are you: twenty-six?" asked Marta.
"Seven."
"You should be having wild flings at your age; making drunken mistakes with musicians..."
"That's not really my..."
"Let me tell you a secret," said Marta as she leaned on the desk conspiratorially. Claire couldn't help but look straight down her boss' cleavage. She wished she had breasts like that. "Do you know how I met Chuck?"
Claire shook her head and leaned forward. She was eager to hear how Marta snagged a tall, handsome -- albeit, sadly, balding - dermatologist for a husband.
"I was about your age; a little younger. We met at a party and just sorta clicked. We found a walk-in closet and we just
did it
. I had to ask him his name afterwards." Marta laughed giddily and a far off look settled in behind her eyes.
Claire didn't say anything. She looked at the clock. It was nearly four. "I'm sorry Marta, I really need to go," she said.
It was Marta's turn to blush. "Listen to me, reliving my wild glory days. Well, remember what I said. Someday when you're old you're going to think back on all the mistakes you didn't make. You'll regret it."
"Jeez, Marta," laughed Claire as she waited for her computer to power down. "My parents would fucking kill you if they heard you giving me advice like that."
Marta looked surprised. "You know, Claire, I don't think I've ever heard you use the word 'fuck' before."
She was right, of course. Claire didn't swear. She didn't curse or smoke or drink at lunch or wear tight, revealing clothes or sleep around with her colleagues. She barely even spoke to her coworkers except when addressed directly and few bothered anymore. She knew they called her "The Cat Lady" behind her back, not because she had a cat - she didn't - but because she embodied the frumpy, socially maladroit stereotype to the point where feline companions were naturally assumed into her life.
"Not that I'm offended. It just sounds weird coming out of you," said Marta.
"It's been a long week" said Claire as she picked up her purse and her big shopping bag with the large, gift-wrapped package. She needed to get out of the office before she did something else stupid.
"Have a good weekend," she stammered awkwardly as she pushed through the door and fumbled a bit with the big purse and shopping bag.
"Try to have some fun," said Marta as the door shut.
The door to the elevator opened and the three smarmy looking executives quickly stopped talking as Claire stepped in. As the doors closed she turned to face the front and inspect her watery reflection in the polished steel. It looked like a caricature of herself: thin and tall with short mousy-brown hair and thick-framed, black glasses. The men behind her weren't checking her out. Claire knew she wasn't even on the radar of guys like that.
Floor after floor, the elevator kept stopping to let more people on; a steady flow of folks slipping out early for the weekend. At each delay, Claire buzzed with impatience. When they finally hit the ground floor she skittered across the lobby on her sensible shoes; out through the revolving doors and barely making the bus.
As the bus made it tortuous way across town she grew more frazzled with anticipation. She would have liked to have taken a cab but her budget was too tight. She was now regretting her economy. The stops seemed interminable and traffic malevolent in its sluggishness. When she spotted the hotel she sighed with relief. She got off at the corner and walked the last half block at a trot.
It had been a long time since she had done this and had last been here: eight months, before Dave. In that lapse the Dolcett Hotel seemed to have gotten dirtier and the clientele sleazier. Claire clutched her package to her chest as she paid cash for a short stay at a room with a bath: only five bucks for a one hour stay, perfect for a girl on a temp's budget.
The room was on the second floor. It was filthy, as always: peeling paint, a strong smell of decay and cigarette smoke, gritty linens and tattered rugs. She ignored it as she quickly stripped off her clothes and opened the gift-wrapped box she had tended all day. She scattered the packing wadded around the components of her alternate life as she first withdrew a douche, an enema and a small contact lens case. She went into the bathroom to begin her transformation, shutting the door behind her.
When she emerged again she was blotting her pussy and bottom with a hotel towel as she blinked uncomfortably from the contact lenses. Her gray eyes now dark brown. Still naked, she did seventy five squats, seventy five lunges and laid a couple of towels on the floor to do one hundred crunches. She looked at herself when she was done, her muscles were tight, her body firm and her skin rosy. She poured a dollop of lavender oil into her palm and began rubbing it onto herself, letting her flesh absorb a thin coating until it looked moist and lustrous.
She got the new bra next. It had been pricey; more than she could afford if she was ever going to move out of her parents'. It was black lace with satin straps and pushed her tits up to their most advantageous heft. She also picked up the matching garters and, of course, the pair of black, fish-net hose. A pair of panties had come with the ensemble too, but she wouldn't need those tonight.
She pulled the tight, tiny black dress out the box and wriggled into it. She carefully touched up her make-up; making it a little heavier around the eyes and replacing the remains of her pale plum lipstick with a tart red. She dropped a pair of wickedly heeled black pumps to the floor and stepped into them. She was almost complete.
At last, she picked up the wig. It was a new one. She had thrown the last one - a sassy auburn bob - away when she last vowed to herself to never do this again. This new wig was the same shade of auburn but was long, wavy and beautiful. Her breath grew shallow holding it.
The funny thing was, it was the wig that had brought
her
back here, not the other way around. She had seen it in a display, bought it on impulse and trembled in anxiety all the way home, knowing exactly were it would lead her. Before long, she found she could think of nothing else but the wig and her disguise. She had gotten increasingly restless and irritable. She couldn't sleep, could barely eat. She took her frustrations out on Dave with increasing intensity and irrationality. As he left for the last time he'd told her she had gone crazy.
As she carefully fit the wig to her head she wondered if maybe she was a little crazy. She decided she didn't care. That probably meant she
was
crazy, she admitted. Not for the first time, she had the sensation of falling, falling, falling.
She inspected herself in the greasy mirror as she called the car service and gave them the address of the hotel. "Call me when you're here," she said. They called fifteen long minutes later.
Three rough looking black kids were hanging out in the hall, passing a joint back and forth, when she emerged from the room. She looked over at them but quickly looked away when she was confronted by six sets of eyes inspecting her hungrily. She didn't look back as she walked quickly to the stairs. Were they following? What if they were right behind her? What if their hands were reaching out right now to grab her, pull her into a room, tie her to the bed and take her over and over and over, all night long; sometimes taking turns, sometimes going all at once?
Distracted, she stumbled a bit at the top of the stairs. "Careful, don't break your pretty-white-lady neck," said one, his voice came from down the hall. The others laughed. She ignored them.
She quickly descended to the lobby and out to the waiting car. "Good afternoon," said the driver. His eyes scanned her attentively in the rearview.
She handed him a business card that only had an address on it. "Take me there," she said.
She always took a car service to the club. It wasn't too expensive and she liked to arrive in style. The short trip from the shithole Dolcett Hotel was one of her favorite parts of the ritual. It was now when her nervous anticipation was at its highest pitch and she gave herself over to its antsy pleasure.
They were very close now. She took out her phone and called a number.
