I swerve, bump, and shove tardy walkers as a curtain of rain slows morning commuters. I stumble through the revolving office doors, drenched and glance at my Timex: Five minutes to get to the 13th floor. I dash toward the elevator. My Gucci heels resonate through the 50 foot marble foyer.
A man in a Tom Ford Wetherby black silk suit stands by the elevator. He scrolls through his Blackberry, glances up from an email, and stares at my chest.
“Idiot paper pusher,” I mutter. I whip my soaked hair and watch water droplets shatter his stare.
I punch the up arrow button with my middle finger. My foot taps the marble tiled floor. I glance at the large, spiral stone staircase. The elevator pauses on the 21st floor. I bolt up the flights of stairs. 200 calories burnt later, I reach the 13th floor and slink down the narrow mahogany paneled hallway. I heave the oak door open, scurry through a maze of cubicles, find my five-by-five cubicle and collapse in my seat.
I lean my head back and cool drops of water slide off my tousled hair and drip onto my white chiffon blouse. I gaze down to smooth my black skirt and notice a watermark on my blouse.
Damp chiffon exposes the new sheer black lace bra my friend gave me as a gag gift. My cheeks flushed as girls shrieked and squealed as I lifted up the lingerie at my 25th birthday party.
“Some man’s going to have a fun time squeezing those”, yelled one of the girls. I waved the comment away and quickly shoved the bra back into the pink gift bag. Last night I had forgotten to dry my usual white full coverage sports bras and had no other option but to pull the fire alarm and wear the lacy brassiere. I gaze down and watch the delicate silk threads clutch my cleavage and black rosettes circle my nipples.
My head drops as I drift back to the memory of the paper pusher’s eyes fastened to my chest. To think, I wore this bra to feel spunky.
I slip on a grey tattered sweater I left at work in case Derek blasted the air-conditioning. I glance over the spread of clutter: applications slide over plastic holders, multicolor Post-It’s litter the cubicle wall, and a carrot muffin rests on a pink note. I snatch the note, curl over and read.
“Hey Nicole, since you were late, I grabbed a carrot muffin for you before everyone raided the Tim Hortons box. There should also be some coffee left in the kitchen by the time you arrive.” Signed Derek in neat, elongated strokes.
Derek, twenty-eight years old, graduated from Harvard with a business law degree. He flew to Toronto from New York and got the first job he applied for. Every deal he supervised came through. When I shuffled into his office for the interview I commented on an image of Dublin plastered on his desktop.
The Brazen Head Pub, the oldest pub in Dublin, sat in the centre of the screen. Our interview ran long as 99% included the various draughts Brazen Head served. He also spoke of books he read by James Joyce and his secret love for European literature. My cell rang an hour after our interview. In an Irish accent, he said I had the job.
I turn on my computer and log into our business chat. The pointless conversation made the day speed by.
I scan for Derek’s name among the online contacts. I type: “Thanks for saving me a muff …”
BossManDerek flashes orange in a text box at the bottom of the screen, “Hey Nicky. Do you want to go out for dinner on Monday?”
My hands fly up to muffle the yelp and heaving breathes. Dinner with my boss? Promotion? Date? I think about my boyfriend who flew off to Punta Cana with his buddies. He hasn’t called me since.
“Are you sure we should be going out?” I say.
BossManDerek replies, “Yah why not? I’ve been meaning to take you out. You’ve been working so hard lately.”
“Hmm, alright! I can’t wait! Where shall we go?” I hit enter and wait.
“I know you like Italian, so let’s go to Nota Bene on Queen Street?”
My nose crinkles. How did he know I like Italian food? I tap my lips and think of what to write. “That sounds lovely, Derek.” My lips quiver into a smile and I wonder what to wear.
“Also … Nicky … can you wear that sexy bra you’re wearing today for Monday and strap on a lacy thong, too? I really like those!”
My pulse quickens. My face flushes, and pink blotches pattern my chest.
Derek’s married. Cute, but taken.
I type, “alright” and click send.
BossManDerek replies, “This is going to be such a sexy night for us! I’ll message you in an hour. I have a conference call. See you in a bit!”
BossManDerek signs off.
I giggle and write Derek on a bunch of pink Post-Its. Work piles on top of my desk and I spin in the swivel chair. When I leave the office I turn to Derek’s closed door and blow invisible kisses.
For the rest of the weekend, my thoughts linger on Derek; his light brown hair rippled with bands of creamy blonde and his toned arms and his ethereal green eyes. I hop on the subway, head to Eaton Centre and dart towards BCBG MaxAzria. After five fittings I purchase a strapless, pleated, teal dress with a sweetheart neckline. I slide my credit card into the terminal and click OK to a week’s worth of groceries. I stride past my old stores. They wave to me with their button-up shirts and high rise pants as I graduate into a new class of women. I strut into Victoria Secret and eye a sale on thongs. I buy two black lace trimmed thongs with pink, satin stitched hearts.
On Monday morning I arrive to the office on time. I hope for some innocent office flirtation, maybe a kiss behind the water cooler.
I turn the corner and furrow my brows. The office is void of people. My cubicle’s haphazard array of papers, Post-Its and pens vanished. Not even a telephone perches in its usual corner. An empty space in a cluttered office.
I hasten to Derek’s office and hope for some sort of explanation. I throw the door open and lock eyes with a skinny Latina woman in a navy blue Armani suit. Her eyes drill into me. She leans next to a box of my belongings: picture frames, a stapler and the fountain pen Derek gave me for Christmas.
She hands me a piece of paper. It’s a letter of resignation.
A shiny flicker catches my eye. On her left hand rests the platinum 5-carat round cut Tiffany & Co. diamond ring. I remember that ring: I helped Derek pick it for his proposal to Nikita, his wife.
She clears her throat and subtracts me from my D+N equation.
“On Friday, Derek came home and asked if I had made reservations for Friday. When I told him he never spoke to me about it he realized your mistake. He thought he was talking to me, not you. He clicked the wrong Nicky and you flirted with him instead.”
I freeze and scan the room for a bucket of water and her broomstick.
“A letter of resignation is appropriate for this situation and…”
I straiten my back and take a step towards Nikita. I glide my fingers over Derek’s mahogany desk. “…and your afraid Derek’s going to bang me against this...” My thoughts cut in.
“…and the company will avoid public humiliation from Derek’s glorified maid”. Nikita thrusts the box into my arms and my posture deflates.
“Leave now or I will call security and have you escorted off the premises.” She points her spiny finger to doors leading out of the office to a life of unemployment and instant noodles.
I shuffle out the office doors with my box.
My head feels faint and my eyes full of tears. The hallway stretches. My ears hear only the strike of my Gucci heels: clack, clack, clack.
Double-walker
Luke Sawczak