The cold from the polished concrete floor seeped into my shoes and rattled my bones. This supposedly chic, industrial space wasn't built for comfort, nor was the cheap wooden chair at my desk. I sat on its edge, wringing my hands and all but folding myself in half in an attempt to generate heat. Business was slow and the owner had confiscated the remote for the heater, apparently deciding that employee comfort was a luxury.
Outside the weather was tepid as the bright sun dulled the edge of the crisp morning air. I longed for the sunshine to find my side of the street. Pacing the store kept me a little warmer. I tried to busy myself, dusting the merchandise for the third time that morning. The occasional customer wandered in and I'd offer explanations of the materials and techniques used to create the custom pieces. They'd admire the work but made it clear they were only curious with no interest in buying. That was fine by me. I wasn't on commission and working alone all day made me appreciate even the most fleeting distraction.
I always brought my laptop to work. It wasn't necessary but a computer on the desk gave the illusion of customer inquiries being attended to. There was nothing professional about it, but unfortunately my online activities were still limited. A full-length mirror sat on the floor behind my desk, reflecting the contents of my screen to anyone who walked in and cared to look. Despite the lack of customers and illusion of solitude, I had to be mindful that I wasn't in total privacy.
I sat back down and considered working on an essay. This job, though low paid, was at least helping make ends meet during my post-graduate degree. I'd been warned against studying at work so couldn't bring my oversized (unfortunately non-digitized) textbooks to refer to. I did my best without them but soon realised I was wasting my time. With nothing else to do, I began curating a playlist to be beamed over the sound system. I'd been forced to listen to the manager's selection of vaguely cool background music that only added to the stifling cloud of mundanity hanging in the air. I needed to be distracted from watching the minutes drag by and hoped a new soundtrack might offer an escape.
As lunchtime rolled around the street outside grew lively with people on their breaks, rushing to get as far as they could from their own daily drudgery. I watched them, wondering what they were thinking. I noticed a woman, eyes locked on her phone. I played a game with myself, guessing what was on her mind. I decided she was scrolling through Instagram, trying to distract herself while she waited to hear about the job she just interviewed for. Then a young man nearby hurriedly grabbed his phone from his pocket. The look on his face softened. I confidently guessed he was newly in love and had just received the reply text he'd been waiting for. Then an older man passed by, fixing his hair as he walked. He looked a little nervous but clearly optimistic. He was hoping that the girl at the coffee shop would continue to reciprocate his flirting, and that today he would finally ask her out. As my assumptions started to lean more towards thoughts of romance it occurred to me, how many passersby were actually thinking about sex?
My train of thought didn't surprise me. I'd been single for months and had never been one for the casual hook-up. The angst of my forced celibacy had been plaguing me for days. It was that time in my cycle where I become perpetually turned on, my whole body tingling and the sight of a woman in tight jeans leaving me winded. I tried my best to ignore it, but it was a delicious ache. You know the kind. The itch you can never quite scratch. For me, it manifests as the overwhelming desire to taste a woman's skin, to feel her melt into me. I do what I can, but it's a frustration I can't overcome alone.
Something that does take the edge off, at least momentarily, is delving deeper into the fantasies. I allow myself to consider every detail, mentally walking myself through the experience as though it's happening in real time. I don't necessarily touch myself, though sometimes I can't help it, but it's almost better when I don't. I focus my energy on the fictitious person in my mind and try to take in her scent, hear her moan, feel her against my lips. But at work, with a window to a world able to see the look on my face, I had to be careful not to let my imagination become too vivid. So this time I had an idea; I'd write my thoughts down in the hopes that typing would look like work related concentration.
I pressed play on my playlist. The songs had a slightly sexier vibe than I'd intended, though that was probably to be expected. I turned the brightness down on my laptop screen to make sure the reflection of my words in the mirror wasn't too visible. I was likely being paranoid - someone would have to be a lot closer to read the small typeface, but it made me feel less conspicuous. I started typing, describing the sordid images that entered my mind. I held each thought in place as long as I could until I'd noted every detail. In no time, the stream of consciousness had developed into a graphic collection of my deepest desires. I read it back and felt sexy and empowered but realized it didn't fully satisfy me. As hard as I tried, I couldn't see the face of the woman I'd envisaged. I needed to have someone specific in mind.
I looked out the window again at the bustling street for inspiration. It didn't take long to spot someone that held my interest. She walked slower than the rest and I wondered if she was a tourist exploring the city. She wasn't dressed in typical work attire, but then this wasn't a corporate part of town. Local workplaces consisted of design studios, galleries and Internet start-ups that demanded stylish self-expression rather than the usually prescribed suits and heels, yet she managed to stand out from the ever-eclectic crowd.
Her ombre brunette hair was styled in an effortlessly cool, long bob of tousled curls. She stopped for a moment, turning her torso towards the breeze and sweeping her hair over and to the left to be tucked in behind her ear. She didn't look lost, but seemed as though she was assessing her surrounds to decide on her next move. The short sleeves of her relaxed white, V-neck t-shirt had been rolled into a cuff, showing her tanned, slender arms. A long, simple necklace skimmed the inner curves of her modestly sized breasts to fall just below her diaphragm. She appeared a little older than my 30 years, maybe somewhere in her early forties. I couldn't see if she was wearing much make-up, but I could tell she wouldn't need to - a natural beauty with gorgeous eyes, high cheekbones and full lips.
I began admiring her toned legs in her tight, dark denim jeans when she turned to face me. I worried for a moment she'd seen me staring. But no, she had found her own reflection, sneakily glancing to assess her appearance. It didn't appear conceited; she actually looked unsure that what she saw was acceptable. I smiled to myself. If only she knew the way I was looking at her. But then our eyes met. She looked embarrassed. Thankfully, instead of turning to walk off as I'd expected, she smiled back and shook her head, giving an exaggerated eye roll. She was trying to mime the realization that she'd been caught and that she felt silly. I couldn't contain an even bigger smile.
'You look great,' I mouthed. She shrugged, looking a little shy. 'Come in,' I gestured. She obliged, looking up to try and find a sign that indicated the type of shop she was walking into. "Hi there" I tried to sound friendly but cool as I greeted her.
She looked around, confused, "What is this place?" Is it a pop-up store? Where's the sign?"
"No, haven't you heard? Its cool to be mysterious." The smile she returned was genuine. "Actually we sell custom furniture, these are just a few examples of the designer's work."
She ran her hand along the smooth messmate dining table she was admiring. "It's lovely."
"What brings you to the area?" I should have been assessing her interest in the table and trying to make a sale, but I was much more interested in her.
"Just looking around, really. I live on the other side of the city and don't get over this way often. Honestly though, I'm only working part-time at the moment. I'm still not sure what to do with my days off!"
"Oh really, where do you work?"
"I own a salon. But I'm stepping back from it. Semi-retirement, really."
"I'm sorry...retirement? You can't be anywhere near retirement age!" I was genuinely shocked. She looked down, with a hint of that bashful smile again.
"Well, I couldn't collect a pension, but the business has done well so it is a slightly early semi-retirement."
"Very early, I'd guess."
"Not really," she replied. I didn't push the point. She was stunning, whatever her age.
She looked uncomfortable with the attention so I turned the tables on myself. "Well, I'm in the first year of my dirty thirties. Not all that close to retirement but definitely in the depths of a mid-career crisis," I said with a laugh.
"Ah yes, dirty thirties, almost as good as the naughty forties!"
