“Eating.”
“Dang, you’re making your dog sound like an unemployed bachelor who lives with his parents.” He relinquishes my phone and slaps it back in my palm, satisfied.
“That’s exactly what he is, a bachelor who lives at home with his one parent—me.”
Paul laughs, and I take advantage of this leeway he’s granted me, the parlay for freedom.
“He has a mind of his own. Try carrying a seventy-pound dog home from the dog park every morning because he won’t pee and he won’t budge, and is out of shape. Or he gets himself lost in the bushes on purpose.” Then I add, “Maybe I’ll bring him by sometime.”
“Yes! Do it.”
I shoot him a thumbs-up, hiking the computer bag higher on my shoulder, and shuffle toward my office.
My office.
After three years at this company, I’ve clawed my way to a corner—three years of kissing ass, busting my balls, and dealing with gossipy, backstabbing co-workers. Like Paul. Only today I was able to win him over with the help of my hound, who almost never comes in handy for anything.
I round the corner, hang another left, and head toward the corridor of offices with the best city views, mine at the end, at the glorious far end.
I give a whistle of contentment, a pep in my step now that I’ve dodged the hall monitor, and give my door a nudge with the toe of my shoe, pushing it the rest of the way open. Shrug my bag into my chair, pull my laptop from its sleeve, and center it on the calendar lining my desktop.
Blue light computer glasses.
Charger.
Then, I do what I do every workday: head for the breakroom, hands stuffed into the pockets of my brown cords as I go to scavenge for a free meal and hot beverage. You know, like I’m homeless and don’t have food at my disposal.
The room isn’t empty—a lot of people work on this floor, and at all hours of the workday, I can always expect a few of them to be snacking on something. I would know because at all hours of the day, I’ve been known to meander in for food. Or a beverage. Or just for a break, since we’re thirty stories up and it’s hardly worth an elevator ride down to the street for a ten-minute breather. Or a street hot dog.
Not worth it.
I greet Martin Duffy from accounting, an older dude wearing a bright blue shirt and a hot pink tie. Pretty sure Martin is single and ready to mingle—like myself—and the company breakroom is a prime spot for Marty to be on the prowl for the various single ladies working at this company.
A veritable speed-dating pool for those so inclined and with the nerve to hit on someone at work.
Like Martin.
“Hey Marty.” I greet him at the same time he exits the room, holding up his muffin as a salutation, cell phone now pressed to his ear. I open one cabinet after the next, searching for a mug, anything to put a bit of coffee in. Locate one in the very last cabinet.
Now here is the thing: I don’t actually drink coffee. Can’t stand the taste of it. Can’t stand the smell.
What I do enjoy is the process of preparing it, pouring it, and standing with my hip against the counter holding a hot, steamy cup on a cold day.
Basically to put off working.
I pour myself a mug, relaxing idly, eyeing up the breakfast pastries laid out on the countertop, all brought in from a company that wants to secure our business. Schmoozing us.
We’re a contracting firm specializing in residential and industrial complexes and communities—communities my good buddy Brooks, an architect, designs. It’s my job to award contracts for subcontractors on the industrial side—electrical, plumbing, heating and air conditioning. The whole nine yards.
High-rise apartments. Skyscrapers. Renovations for entire city blocks.
I award the contracts.
I’m not the boss, but if I play my cards right and kiss all the right asses, maybe I will be one day.
I nab a bagel, set my coffee prop on the counter (I’m not going to drink it anyway), and root around in the refrigerator for cream cheese. Cream cheese, cream cheese, where is the cream cheese…
Possibly some jelly? I’m in the mood for something sweet, and I’m one of those weird foodies who has to eat in order: no lunch food before I’ve had breakfast, no cake before lunch. Donuts, in my opinion, equal cake.
And today I’m friggin’ starving enough to eat actual cake for breakfast, just watch me.
It takes some digging, but on the top shelf near the way way back, I find the cream cheese. Turn the container this way and that to find the expiration date. It’s expired, but only by three weeks, so I crack the top and stick my nose in it, giving it a whiff.
My nose wrinkles the smallest bit. I mean, it smells kind of rank, but what are the chances it will actually make me sick?
Digging around for a knife, I stab it into the cream cheese and stir a bit to make it soft, the way I do at home, and—
“You’re not seriously going to eat that are you?”
Glancing up, I see a girl—young woman, to be precise—leaning against the doorframe of the breakroom, sizing me up, mouth twisted into a curve of distaste. Pointedly glancing from me to the cream cheese container I’m holding in my hand, knife in the other.
I lift them both toward her and shrug. “I’m hungry.”
“Enough to eat expired cream cheese?”
“How did you know it was expired?”
“Well, first I saw you check for the date, then I saw you sniff it—if it wasn’t expired, you would have gone straight for a knife without doing a sniff test.”
A sniff test. I hadn’t realized that’s what I was doing, but damn, she’s right. It did stink and I probably shouldn’t eat it—but what business is it of hers what I eat?
I don’t know her; does she even work here? For all I know she’s the muffin girl dropping off baked goods, or a subcontractor dropping off a bid.
“Right.” I ignore her—she’s not anyone I’ve ever met, no one I have to report to or worry about, but she is still staring at me. So I ignore her.
Although…to be fair, she is pretty damn attractive, so I’m not exactly mad about it.
Dark hair, dark blue eyes, curious stare.
I can feel her inspecting me as I smear the white-yellowish spread onto one half of my plain, untoasted bagel. A sad replacement for a donut, but I’ll survive.
“You’re not going to put that in the toaster?” She slowly comes toward me to watch.
“Nope.” Not with her standing there not-so-silently judging everything I do.
Now she’s at the fridge, leaning in. Reaches in and retrieves a carton of orange juice, fiddling with the twist top as I stir the cream cheese a little longer, lingering.
“Time for mimosas so early in the day?” I jest, creaming a second slice of bagel.
She semi-ignores me, grabbing a cup from a cabinet. “I would love a mimosa. I’ll just have to pretend, won’t I?” The girl pours, still not looking directly at me—but I do catch her side glance my way once or twice as I snatch a paper towel, wrapping my breakfast for takeaway.
Mmm mmm good.
“You’re not going to eat it? Not going to take a bite now?” Still not looking at me.
“I will when I get to my desk.”
Pouring herself a glass of OJ, she takes her sweet time, filling the entire cup with tart, orange liquid. Sips the top off and smiles. “I want to actually see you take a bite.”