Maria
Steve M. Benner
SmashWords Edition
Copyright Steve M. Benner 2014
Maria. It’s always been about her. Every day I sit at my desk with one eye trained on the glass fronting my office, my ears tuned to the familiar sound of her shoes on the hard linoleum; waiting for that first sight of her walking past, waiting to see that sensuous sway of hers. Whatever comes before that sight is lost in the irrelevance that covers all preceding events; getting out of bed, dressing, eating, driving; all lost. I long to see her pass, to begin my day.
Maria is so young, so attractive. She exudes the exuberance of youth; that naïveté that life beats out of most of us by age 25. Her features are such that she seems to be smiling even when she is not. Her clothes are smart, meant to accent a figure that garners the passing glances of men who have seen it every day for years, and yet continues to attract their eyes like iron to magnet. A figure that other women hate. Her makeup is light enough to give the appearance of not being there at all, and her hair is like a black waterfall, spilling off her shoulders, to pool upon her petite breasts. Her steel-grey eyes and bright red lips are gems that highlight her perfectly proportioned features; her copper skin darkly glows as if lit from deep within. A faint hint of lavender trails in her wake, extending her presence even after she’s gone. She is a force of nature, a Grecian nymph, an exquisite instrument of seduction.
I say “Hello” or “Ole” to her when I pass her in the hallways. I’ve asked around to find out more about her, like her full name, Maria Isabel Mendez. Her job is as a floater for the steno pool, filling in wherever needed. My assigned secretary is rarely out, prompting me to wish her declining health. Maria also makes the coffee for those of us addicted to that particular beverage. I set my trap for her; waiting to set my plan in motion I make sure the coffeemaker is empty. This will eventually draw Maria to the small kitchen and lunch area near our offices. Later that day, when I hear her footsteps, I move nonchalantly to our rendezvous, entering the kitchen just after her. She is wearing a tight-fitting dark-red dress that shows just enough cleavage to not be provocative and that flows down to her knees, clearly outlining the figure beneath. I smell a faint hint of lavender mingling with that of the coffee.
“¡Buenos días, Maria Isabel.”
She turns around to look at me, “Hola, Señor Hamilton, como esta?”
“I’m fine, thank you. Would you mind joining me for a cup of coffee; I’d like to ask you a few questions.” She nods, and I direct her to one of only three tables in the lunch room, where we sit opposite each other. “I guess you know me.”
“Of course, everyone talks about you, Mr. Hamilton.”
“That’s interesting what do they say? And please call me Nick.”
“I will try, Nick, but it is hard to overcome one’s upbringing. To be honest, I don’t think they like you very much and many are afraid of you.’
“Well, that’s very typical of places I visit.”
“What exactly do you do?”
“I visit companies that are not doing well and turn them around so they’re profitable again. Mainly by the liberal distribution of pink slips, usually to executives who have become lazy, greedy, and/or overconfident. A friend had once referred to me as a professional maggot. He said I eat out the rotting parts of a company to save the whole. Though apt, the metaphor left much to be desired, at least in terms of image.”
“You’re right, not a very flattering comment. Then you must have been the one to fire Mr. Mendez?”
“Yep, that was me.”
“He has a big family and is a very nice man.”
“That may be true, but irrelevant to me. He was deadwood to the company and had to go. It’s not personal; it’s business. Most of the people I let go are executives, and they don’t stay unemployed long. But it’s a blow to their egos.”
“Now I see why you are disliked and feared.”
I soften my voice. “Are you afraid of me?”
“Not at all. I think you are a very nice man,” she replies with a very broad smile. “Tell me how you ended up here?”
“I’ve been revamping companies for almost ten years. When I started this job, it’d seemed important to keep the factories going to provide jobs; I wanted to help rebuild things after seeing so much destruction during the War. But I soon realized that the real benefactors were the owners, so what little bit of social conscience I had slowly eroded away along with years. About three months ago, my boss asked how good my Spanish was, and I told him it was barely intelligible. He said that was close enough and told me to pack and head down here to fix this failing subsidiary. I guess I really didn’t mind, so here I am.”
“What about your family?”
I wanted to tell her my life in the States has been reduced to an endless stream of blurred images, like bad snapshots in an album of middle-class suburban life: drinks with my co-workers; drinks alone; arguments with a bitter ex-wife too old and too personality deficient to find another mate; obligatory visits from a daughter who treats me like a social leper; a job that became so routine that boredom is in the job description. But I decide that would be much too personal. “I have a daughter that’s 18; she spends most of her time with my ex. That’s about it.”
“You sound lonely, and I think you may also feel somewhat unappreciated. I’m sure your job does not endear you to the people working here.”
“Let’s just say I don’t get many invitations for drinks after work. I can’t really complain; I do all right. But enough about my sorry life, I want to know more about you. Your English’s much better than my Spanish. How’d that happen?”
“Gracias. I think you are better at our language than you let on. As to my English, my uncle lived in the States for a long time and was fluent in English. Between his influence, the English I had in school, and working with the Americans, I’ve gotten pretty good at it.”
“I’ve been wanting to talk to you, and sometimes it’s hard to talk privately to someone around here. Can I ask you a favor?”
“Of course you can, but you need not catch me to ask me something.” She smiles at this seeing through my not so subtle trap.
“I have been here a while now and have not really gotten out of the tourist areas to see the real city. I was wondering where you go after work and if I could tag along?”
Her starkly blue eyes meet mine, and a coy smile emerges, “Are you asking me on a date, Señor Hamilton?”
My heart skips a beat; luckily I don’t blush. “No, no. Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply that. I just want to join you when you go out with your friends. I need you to show me places that foreigners rarely get to see. You know, life behind the facade.”
“Well, Nick, some nights I join some of my friends to talk. Maybe you would like to join me?”
“I’d love to.” I hope she is serious and not just saying this to end the conversation.
“That would be fine. I’ll let you know.”
I didn’t know how to end the meeting so I awkwardly reach for her hand to shake it; her grip’s firm, and I feet the tingling of her skin. Something passes between us, something ethereal. I’m sure she feels it too, though her eyes give no indication. Those eyes. A man could get lost in them, and maybe I did. I spend the rest of the day pushing her image out of my mind, trying to work, but those eyes keep working their way back into my thoughts. I know what lust is and what obsession is, but this is neither, it’s something softer and more caring. It touches something deep inside of me, an unconscious need, a psychic void.
During the next few days, I managed to engage Maria in hallway conversations, mostly in reference to highlights of the city and about her life here. She grew up nearby an
d has knowledge about the workings of the city way beyond the sanitized guidebooks and company-supplied brochures. She, in turn, asked me about the States, the company, my background, my opinion of her city, her country, our world—essentially everything. Her mind matches the high standard set by her appearance, absorbing new ideas and concepts like water on parched earth. She charms me without mendacity.
I control myself; keeping in check the emotions that simmer under the surface. I hide the feelings that haunt me at night, feelings that assail me when I’m alone, when I’m vulnerable. I compensate with alcohol; alcohol can numb the brain and keep thoughts from gelling into something coherent, and potentially painful.
It’s only about a week later that she comes to my office. “Well, Nick, tomorrow night I’m joining some of my friends at a local bar. You are welcome to join me.”
“I will. Why don’t I pick you up after work and drive you?”
“That would be fine. I’ll see you tomorrow after work.”
It seemed like forever from that conversation to when I am to meet her after work. I have trouble concentrating on my work: at night, I lift the restraints and let my mind explore the possibilities but to what end? What am I am seeking in this? I can’t comprehend my motives; I cannot believe this is just a middle-aged man seeking reassurance in the arms of a young woman. There has to be more to it than that. I