I've always kept things simple. I've tried to ask very few questions, take things as they come, and often let everything ride on serendipity. I hated "should be" or "supposed to be".
Questions often stopped things in their tracks. Is it something to be proud of that Jenn was the only married woman that I personally knew that I ever caught myself fantasizing about?
What should I have said when she asked me if we could go to my apartment during lunch?
We were only supposed to have coffee, just like any other day over the past 3 years we'd been working in the same building. Sometimes we actually had a proper lunch; other times we'd go for a long walk.
Today was just supposed to be coffee.
Why was she coming to my apartment then? Why did she ask that I go first and she would arrive five minutes later? Why did I think this was more than about coffee?
The questions just rattled on endlessly. It would have made me dizzy if not for a strange, swelling anticipation clearing my head. It suggested I keep those questions to myself, bury them deep and, above all, don't ask Jenn.
I entered my apartment; it was clean, fortunately. Christine was over the night before; she hated when my place was untidy.
I didn't have much to do as I waited. On a bookshelf, I fingered a picture frame, looking at the smiling couple embracing each other on some beach in some country. There was a knock on the door. I slipped the picture into a drawer.
Jenn usually had a calm but vibrant smile. It was one of her many attractive qualities. It was the same with the way she said "Hello", a quick sample of her voice, gentle with an unexpectedly charming boyish lilt to it. Standing at my door, there was no smile, no "Hello" from her. She wasn't upset, though. What I sensed in her placid expression was angst; something I had rarely witnessed from her.
As I led her into my apartment, a flourish of moments, mostly only scant seconds long, flooded my memory: those connections when we talked, those slight glances towards each other that lingered maybe a bit too long, the extra tight squeezes when we hugged. Most of all, those times when we walked along the sidewalks, chatting, the backs of our hands brushing one another, thinking nothing of it at the time, but keeping them hidden in my memory.
Jenn stood in the center of my living room, her back to me, rubbing her arm quietly. She'd never seemed so vulnerable.
"Can't believe I've never had you over before," I said, "Living so close by to work. Sorry." "It's okay," she said softly.
"Offer you a drink?"
She shook her head.
I should have asked her if something was wrong or if she wanted to talk. That's what I was supposed to do.
Instead, I kept my mouth shut.
"Flynn," she said, still facing away, "Where's your bedroom?"
I nodded. "On your left."
Without a word, she left the room.
I hesitated. For some reason, I thought she might come back out eventually. She didn't.
A few seconds more and I finally followed her into the bedroom.
Jenn was sitting at the edge of my bed. I stood by the door as I watched her. She was breathing deeply but otherwise she sat quietly looking down at her hands.
"It's very bright in here," she said. The mid-afternoon sun came unfiltered through my windows, splashing the room with a white glow. I went to the windows and drew the curtains. They couldn't block out all the light, but they did soothe it to a golden haze.