The red velvet cupcake had delicate swirls of creamy frosting. The edges in the frosting were exquisitely sharp. The dough had a rich brown color the luxuriously collected and reflected the light. The tiny dots had a brilliant red color. The scent of hand harvested high land cacao gently filled the air and my lungs. The size was very cute. They are twelve dollars a pop. Richard had bought trays to celebrate with the entire floor.
That little thing spoke to me in the darkness and silence of a Friday evening in the office: "Eat me! Swallow me! Let me seep into every cell of your body!" Nausea rose in my body. My stomach shriveled to the size of a pea as to clutch itself hard to refuse anything my mindless arms may shove down. Evil! Pure Evil! This little thing was everything that was left of the Richmond case: Six months of 70 hour weeks, pounding headaches at midnight, a struggle to highlight one more document, loss of appetite for days, with a bleeding heart to open the hand for friends to slip away, and even Herbert, the cactus, died from neglect. Celebrating that with the cupcake would be admitting that I wanted all of that.
At the end of the long tunnel was supposed to be freedom and fun. This didn't feel fun. It felt empty. It felt like nothing. It felt like for months I was blinded by the activity of the project to not even realize how I had nothing in my life. I didn't have the energy or enthusiasm to do something fun. I could not calm down enough to close my eyes. My mind was too exhausted to do anything and too wired to do nothing. The entire day, I had simply been checking my e-mail over and over. The realization of what I had done came only know because my mind was realizing so little, that little thing that got pushed too much.
"Derek is downstairs," said the smooth, male voice of my assistant Brian through the intercom in the phone.
I stood up from the leather swivel chair. My high heels felt wobbly. My shirt had come untuck from the beige, tight, knee-length skirt. My makeup was probably a mess. I had skipped the afternoon touch up as a little letting go for a project well done. I stepped towards the office door. I knew that I was walking like an old cow with my butt sticking out. Fuck it!
Brian, the skinny man in that extra slim Calvin Klein suit with that extremely well groomed face, jumped up to press a white box with a red ribbon, the size of an apple, into my hand. He stuck a note with tiny scribble into my other hand. He pressed the black purse under my left armpit.
"Okay, Claire, you look like you won't read your cheat sheet. I'm going to walk you through on the elevator ride down."
He grabbed my hand and pulled my swaying, tired body after him. He kicked the trashcan out of the elevator door. Fuck, is he good! He made sure I didn't have to wait for the elevator. That's what you get when you hire an ambitious motherfucking kid from Harvard as a personal assistant to run your errands.
He looked at me earnestly and fired away with an energized voice. That's what a boxing champion must feel like sitting on the stool on the ring about to head into the fight. The trainer is yelling at the champ. The words barely register with the champ because he is too focused on the opponent in the other corner.
"There are four things you need to remember: #1 The Houston Rockets played the Golden State Warriors. #2 The Houston Rockets won. #3 Derek was routing for the Golden State Warriors. He'll be bummed out tonight. So, be gently. #4 The perfect joke to cheer him up is..." Brian talked at a fast pitch as the light moved from one floor to the next.
"Your makeup is horrible. Let me fix that," exclaimed Brian, slightly rushed looking at the light indicating that another floor had passed.
He pulled a makeup case out of his suit pocket. He dabbed a brush into some foundation. I stood there like a dog getting a bath: Making a slightly unhappy facial expression, yet patiently letting my face be prodded. He is one in a million: A man who not only knows makeup but applies it without question perfectly. The thing that I hated about it that underneath that perfect, fresh, and energetic Asian cheerleader face was a dead zombie. Nobody would reach me. The few people that noticed a crack in the façade would look at me with a pause and mute face. Then, their eyes would drift down to my perfectly round boobs, thank you underwire. The thrill of talking to me would return to their face, and they'd continue trying to impress me with their small talk. Each time it happened, I held my breath, waiting and hoping that someone would catch a glimpse of the real me. At the same time, I'd dread the moment of being caught and of being vulnerable. It passed each time.
Only Brian was astute and saw the real me. Though, he only recognized me as a machine that had to be oiled and send back into battle. There was a brutal exposedness with him, like a boxer naked in the gym with skin flabs hanging loose from a cut. Like a coach, Brian never paid any mind to my nakedness. He was focused on the serving his purpose to make me serve my purpose. I wouldn't say that Brian was soulless. He had the most exquisite soul made by an award winning designer – just not human.
"No, I'm not doing that anymore," I protested. I felt embarrassed for acting like the eight year old girl that I used to be, all bratty, all emotion, all unreasonable.
"Claire, we are not doing the whole thing. But you need a little energy for your date with Derek," there was no reasoning with Brian. He was the family doctor that forced every vaccination through the needle and into my skin despite all of my protests.
He pushed the straw into my nostril and held the makeup mirror with a penny sized white pile. I inhaled. There was that sharp feeling. There was the pulse in my arms twitching alive again. There was that clarity breaking up the stupor. My heart was fluttering instead of pounding fast. I pushed that warning sign away that my body was pushed beyond safe limits.
I felt a finger between my trim butt cheeks. The spot felt so tender, so vulnerable, so absolutely throwing me out of the train of my thoughts. I jumped into the air. I inhaled sharply. I got my right hand ready to slap Brian across the face for squeezing my butt. Not only did he grab my butt, but his lanky fingers exquisitely slipped between my butt cheeks to touch me where nobody touches me!
"YES!" he yelled into my face with fire that quickly made me slump back into the desponded feeling that I had been nursing. "Your fire is back. You are going to be the flirtiest thing this side of the Hudson. Now, go get Derek to drop on his knees!"
He shoved me out of the elevator door into the three story high glass lobby. Derek was standing outside with his black Range Rover in a standard gray office suit. Fuck! It was game on! I put a smile on my face. I tugged my knees closer together to give me hips more of a sway in the walk. I started strutting my high heels with straight knees forward – left, right, left right. My gaze was locked on him like fire. I let a smile slowly and seductively grow as if Derek were lighting up my life.
He stood there cooly, leaning against his Range Rover with his ankles crossed. He had a warm, wooly overcoat for the already cooling New York fall evening. The daily stress seemed to drift out of his face. My power to light up a whole room was turned on fully. With an elegant arm gesture, he opened the passenger door for me as I stepped through the double swing glass door.
"Hey, I'm sorry honey that the Warriors lost. I got you a little something to make your day better!" It told him, while I put my hand on the back of his hand on the door. I kissed his cheeks with my fresh, red lips.
"That guy in the second inning was a complete bum. My little brother can pitch better than that!" complained Derek.
"I know, it's terrible," I replied putting all my emphasis into the emotion of the statement because I didn't watch the game.
He went on rambling about baseball while the trees lining the street drifted by. I'd normally make an effort to throw in a few words to make him feel like I was part of his conversation. Why bother? I had put so much effort into Derek. He still hadn't proposed. He was gorgeous. He was successful. My parents liked him. My girlfriends were jealous. That moment, he simply felt like a lot of work. He had promised me kids and a dog. A faint suspicion walked into my mind that some fantasy of those kids and that dog was what I was after, not what he was really delivering.
I pressed the button to make the windows zip down. I listened to the whine of the electromotor being drowned out by the roaring draft pouring in. My hair was getting tussled. I felt the heat being peeled out of my face until my face felt like the bare bones of a fish carcass after the flesh has been peeled of or the warm skin in my case. There was a beauty to the mindlessness of braving the storm.
"Stephen Curry," yelled Derek against the roar of the draft.
He must have been repeating himself from the sound of the strained voice. Stephen Curry was his hero. He must be looking for a positive statement.
"You can always trust him to carry the water when everyone else fucks up," I told him while taking one last look at his face. He had a classical manly Caucasian face: A thick jawline, strong cheekbones, a smoothness about the curves of the skin between those anchor points. The brow line was perfect – energized, rich, yet not overly hairy. He had a confidence of a classical business man in his mid-thirties. If one were to think about a real man in the city, not a lumber jack, that would be Derek.
I soaked in the last look. When he said a self-satisfied "that's right," he sealed the deal. I threw the exquisite gift box out of the window. It hit something. There was a loud bang.
"What was that?" he asked startled, steeling glances over his shoulder.
