The following Monday, she entered the office with a confident stride and quick tongue. She called a quick staff meeting about the previous Friday and its disastrous deadlines, informing the part-timers and undergraduates that to work in print media is to accept such time crunches and to be prepared for last-minute sprints. She wrapped up by delegating the day's tasks and set about her own research and writing, not once letting the deeply rumbling tremor inside reach her voice or hands.
Friday's nefarious ending left her wallowing all weekend in regret, fantasy, despair and a deep-seated curiosity for what Monday would bring. Had she jeopardized her job? Had she uncovered a regular pastime of her boss's – one he'd carried out with loads of other staff writers? Or worst of all, had she set the stage for these rendezvous to continue?
Never before had she caved so completely and quickly to her sexual hunger, or to someone else's. She had never put out anyone so she could enjoy a good romp – let alone an entire office of people. And most disturbingly, never had she been so…out of control.
That thought had consumed her the most throughout the weekend. Not that she had been the one to first reach for the light switch, thereby enabling the situation; not the hunger she felt for his mouth on hers, for her mouth on his body, for his body in hers. She was most troubled by the way she so easily surrendered to his intimidation, to his size and demeanor. Never before…
But now it was Monday, and bossiness seemed to have covered her embarrassment. The staff, most of who were working through a rough morning themselves, took direction and set off on tasks, perhaps grateful to be let off the hook so easily.
She saw him only briefly that day, breezing into the office once the meeting commenced. Coffee at his lips, a rumpled shirt and mildly crusted eyes indicated he had enjoyed his own weekend.
"You finished bossing my staff around?" he monotoned.
She couldn't help but snort – audibly.
Your staff? When's the last time you gave these hung over suckers any direction?
But despite the relative ease with which they entered the workplace together again, she found her stomach sinking mightily. What had he been up to all weekend that brought him in so weary and bleary-eyed?
Was I only your first catch of the weekend? How many more were there since then? Ugh…how many were there before me? Shit, I should probably get tested.
And she did. She even left work early that day.
*
The week passed relatively altercation-free. The staff was scared enough of her to get their work done on time and suitable enough for the magazine's needs. For the most part, they left her alone, and the lack of power struggles following her silent treatment by him allowed her several blissful days of productivity. She was feeling much better. By Wednesday she even managed a small taunt.
"Hey Boss," she called over her shoulder, seeing that he was immersed in paperwork. "What you want me to do with these archived files?"
"Don't call me that," came his distracted reply.
"But you're the one who pays me," she said with a small smile. She knew he hated it.
"Don't. Call me that." Her smile dripped away at the steely voice that emanated from under his bent frame.
Fuck you,
was her unspoken retort.
By that Friday, she was good and ready for the weekend. So were the part-timers and undergraduates – the silence in the office had driven many of them to leave early. She thanked them on their way out for finishing their stories on time this week, and was met with half-grateful half-hateful glances.
Wow,
she thought,
I really sound like a bitch. Is this what it takes to get a job done?
Her mind wandered away from the layout displayed on her screen. What
does
it take for a woman to be successful working under a male director? For her, producing a clean, timely, thorough piece of media on a dependable basis hadn't been enough. Running the office operations single-handedly – often covering for big Boss's poor decisions – wasn't enough. Rubbing her forehead, she took her conundrum to the bathroom, picking up a copy of last week's magazine on the way. After washing her face with cool water, she contemplated the wet and remarkably young-looking face that stared back in the mirror.
I feel so much older than this.
Why is this still an issue? Why does a woman still have to fight tooth and nail to succeed in business, and settle for meager or nonexistent praise throughout her career up until retirement, when some fresh-faced rookie recounts her many accomplishments in ten minutes for an admiring crowd at an award banquet?
Why can't I go home every week confident I did a damn good job,
she looked at the glossy cover she and the rookies had worked so hard on,
and occasionally hear it from my own boss?
More immediately
, she thought on her way back to the office, remembering those college years when she'd be on her second Long Island and well on her way to getting laid by now,
Why can't I get a damn date on a Friday?
She tossed the magazine back on the circular conference table and headed for her desk, then nearly jumped out of her jeans when she heard him clear his throat and found him leaning on the front of his desk, arms crossed.
What now?
Her jaw clenched.
Try me.
"Nice work." He jutted his chin toward the publication she had just tossed on the table.
Fumbling with those words like a non-native speaker struggling to translate, she opened and closed her mouth. "Huh?" was all she could manage.
"That really pulled together. Sure as hell surprised me, 'specially with the shitstorm that last week ended in."
She remained frozen, turning the words over and over in her head, searching for the malice or some patronizing route for the conversation to take. "Yeah…" she finally managed, and made again for her desk.
"Call me Rob," he interrupted. Again, she froze. What was this all about?
