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.
