The Animal Kingdom

“This is so unprofessional!” Rose exclaims for the third time that day, and it’s true.  We are unprofessional.  Someone in the office has brought in balloons  and a pump, and most people have stopped their work and are trying to make balloon animals.  There is a cracking “POP!!!” from behind me, and everyone jumps.  

“Guys, seriously!” she moans.  Rose is not making balloon animals.  She is adjusting her glasses and leafing through Wednesday’s Europe reports, trying to ignore everything around her.  

“You want?” Ben asks, holding out a pink balloon puppy with an air of extreme disinterest.  

I say nothing, only smile and point with one hand to a free spot on my desk while still tapping away at Excel with the other.  

He places it down gingerly and then ambles away back to his office.

“Smoke break?” Veronica inquires to the room at large, and five of us girls immediately stand up to join her.

On the roof, we stand in a circle, huddling against the wind.  The new girl, Lex, is wearing a short, fluttering skirt that keeps whipping up in the back.  She shrieks and clutches at the fabric, but we all laugh good-naturedly and assure her that it’s happened to all of us countless time.  

“Gotta give those security guards a good show,” Veronica winks, nodding her head in the direction of a guard skulking around in the distance.  

We pass around a lighter and admire each other’s shoes and outfits--a favorite roof pastime.  So-and-so is having a sale, and no, I got these at a thrift store on Melrose and did you hear that so-and-so’s new collection is out?  We’re all quite the astute fashionistas.  

Then, the conversation turns to guys, as it so often does when we’ve exhausted our shopping trivia.  

“DId you meet the new guy?” Liza asks.  

“Mmmm, very cute,” is Rose’s assessment as she finishes a drag.  

“And that accent!  Oh my *God*!” Veronica places her hand to her chest.

“Cute.  Not my type,” I throw in.  

“What *is* your type, if you don’t mind me asking?” Liza tilts her head.  She’s smiling, hoping I’ll take the bait.  She’s the only one who knows about my relationship with Ben, and she’s teasing me.  I know she would never outright say anything, just as she knows I will make up some lie and dodge her question.  It’s a game meant for teenagers, but there’s nothing quite like office romance to make everyone feel like gossiping kids again.

“Intelligent, interesting, playful, well-read, good taste in music and movies, and doesn’t wear sneakers with jeans.”

“Well duh to all of that,” Veronica playfully rolls her eyes.  “But physically, what’s your type?”

They’re all looking at me, waiting for an answer.  

“Um...nice shoulders?  Dark eyes?  Around six feet tall?  Not too skinny but not too muscular? No facial hair?”

I realize that I’ve said all of these attributes as if they were questions--as if I myself do not even know what my type is.  But in reality, I don’t.  Sean was my first serious boyfriend and my only love, and when you’ve been with someone for almost ten years, you kind of forget what your type is.  Your type becomes the person in front of you and no one else.  

Physically, Sean and Ben are quite different.  Ben is 100% Korean to Sean’s half-Japanese, half-white.  They are both the same height, but they wear their weight differently.  Sean was leaner, a little more wiry.  Ben has a broader chest and thicker arms.  When I was with Sean, I thought he was the most handsome guy in the world--I loved waking up to him and admiring his long lashes, tan skin, and perfectly sculpted nose.  

And waking up with Ben is different, but not in a bad way.  It’s like going from having toast and jam every morning for breakfast to having eggs and bacon--not a negative change, just a change.  

“I can’t believe you don’t like a good beard!” Rose shouts, and with that, the conversation is steered away from me and into the world of intense facial hair.

As we tramp back downstairs, Liza falls in step next to me and nudges my side.

“So basically, your physical type is...Ben?” She says it quietly and no one can hear, but I pretend to shove her hard against the railing.  She laughs hysterically at my faux annoyance and skips down ahead of me.

When we get back in the office, there are balloon animals everywhere.

The Girl Made of Glass II

The people at work who have known him for years can sense a change.  One day, after we’ve been seeing each other for a month, his boss closes the door behind her and turns to him.  

“What’s going on between you and Murph?” she demands.

“Nothing,” is the straight-faced reply.

“Liar!’  

It’s an accusation laced with glee, and he can’t help but laugh.  And with that, our cover is blown.

The head of the department is the next to know.  She has known him for years--hired him when he was just a punk teenager.  She winks when we pass her in the hallway.  

The secret keeps our adrenaline up.  We often ignore each other in the main department--he will pass through, we will make eye contact, and he’ll disappear.  When he says goodbye at the end of the day, I echo the farewells of my co-workers.

***

There is a cap on everything and I knew this from the start.  And there is a paranoia that is all in my head, but it doesn’t make it any less real.  To him, it’s something of an invisible monster.  It’s something he has to believe through my insistence alone.  

I am my worst enemy.  And he will become frustrated, and he will become unhappy.  But I don’t feel like I am in the place to compromise.   I don’t want to have to stomach guilt and horror and jealousy and rage for the sake of someone else.  

He’s heard the story.  He knows the facts, names, places, and dates.  But he didn’t know me back then, and I don’t think he can understand what exactly happened to me in the last six months--how I feel like I’ve aged a lifetime but have also been given a second chance.  And with a second chance, it’s so precious, so rare, so why should I obsess over shadows?  Why should I let myself become so unhappy?

I had never experienced heartbreak.  The phrase was familiar through its associations with dramatic films and radio love songs.  But until November, I never knew what it was like to literally have my heart break.  It was more like a shattering, when I think about it carefully--atoms scattering  away like mist.  I was disappearing into the air, and no matter how hard I tried to conjure a foundation within myself, there was nothing to hold.  The world around me also seemed to break apart into feather-like pieces to float upward into the sky.  I cried and cried, but the tears meant nothing, and those remnants of the past that I managed to catch turned from beauty to rotten in my slowly dissolving hands.  

When I woke up the next day, I was living in neither the past, nor present, nor future.  I had stumbled into some invisible layer separating the three.    I felt neither alive nor dead.  Trapped inside a nightmare that wouldn’t end even in sleep, I walked through a maze of doors where all were locked.

Except for one.  And it was the door I dreaded the most--the one I avoided even trying, because I knew from the bottom of my insanity that it was the only one that would open.  I paced back and forth, trying to calm myself, occasionally pulling on other knobs that still refused to turn.  And sometimes, I heard voices from the other side that caused the tears to bubble and burst until my eyes were burning.  In a frenzy, I tried every key, every trick, every password.  And even though each time I was denied, I found myself sleeping at these entrances, hoping to be woken by the sound of a lock coming undone.  

After some time, I understood how pathetic I was.  I went to stand before that one door and placed my hand over the cool, unfamiliar knob.  Maybe I wasn’t ready, but I couldn’t wait anymore.  My fear wouldn’t wait--my fear of being trapped here forever--and so I pushed through the door and fell back into life.  

That morning, I made myself a large cup of coffee.  The first one to arrive in my department, I set to work on creating and sending out the morning reports.  When Liza arrived, I smiled and talked about how great it was to have my sister and mother visit.  I worked throughout the day without a complaint, and when I went home, it was to an empty apartment and a cold bed.  

And eventually, as the months passed by and those particles slowly fell back into form, I wasn’t the same as I was before.  Underneath my skin was nothing but glass.  

***

A girl made of glass is prone to break, and when she does, it leaves a mess for someone else to clean up.  Others can try to step around her and  some may stick around and try to fix her.  But more often than not, they cut themselves on the pieces, and she is sorry, yet they can’t help but bleed.

The Girl Made of Glass

I am sitting at my desk, waiting on a file to export.  Headphones in (Bill Ricchini crooning about sunny days and saving graces), a room-temperature, half-drank can of cherry cola on my right, a shopping bag resting on my left.  Damn, I shouldn’t have bought that dress.  I’ll have to wear it at least once a week for the next month so it doesn’t feel like a total waste.  It will look good with that sheer, crème colored top with the sweet peter pan collar.  Or maybe I could wear it with those red tights with those crazy zig-zag patterns running down the side.  Nothing long-sleeved—that would look stupid.  But really, I should have not bought that dress.  A wear-once waste.

I see Him out of the corner of my eye.  He pauses as he closes the door to his office, staring down the cavernous room for just half a second before moving toward the main office door.  It’s more of a shuffle, really—a nonchalant, unhurried padding that will surely lead up to the roof, where he will be leaning against the cracking stucco wall, one hand holding a cigarette between two fingers, the other resting in his pocket.

So I take a quick inventory of the room--Peter's chair is vacant (must be in Annie's office), Liza and Rose are both nodding their heads to their music, and Veronica is in the adjoining room, standing over Chris' desk listening in on a conference call.  Elijah has, unsurprisingly, yet to show his face in the office this morning.  I slide out out from behind my desk, locking my desktop and straightening my jacket.  Lighter? Check.  New pack?  Check.  Keeping my head low, I push through the office door and make my way up the stairs, that narrow passageway of too harsh sunlight and dust.  And there he is, squinting against the sun, not even turning his attention at my arrival.

I take my place on the wall a few feet away from him.  He glances over and asks how my morning has been.  I light up and grumble about my broken reports and misguided formulas.  He nods in quiet agreement.  Somehow, it's harder to find words at work.  We are two different people here--he is That Guy--the guy who rarely laughs, who sleepwalks through the day, who isn't shy but just keeps to himself, who has been here for years and who seems to know everyone, even those who don't work in our department. Paint-stained hoodie, hair cropped too short, Chucks or Vans. Calm.  And then there is me--chatty enough with my direct department, but for the most part, silent and making every effort to disappear into the walls.  Grimacing at the desk, seen sighing and squinting through hours of Excel, with a Red Bull every morning.  Doc Martens, jeans, knit pullovers, glasses.  

And yet, after work, there is this transformation.  He becomes the guy that laughs, who buys nice wine, is first to suggest a great bar I've never even heard of, who likes to walk at the reservoir and casually asks if I want to go to Mexico next month.  And even though my pulse may jump, I’m steady as steel.  There will  be no falling head over heels, there will be no daydreaming of whimsical afternoons or surprise gifts.  But there are some allowances.  In a subdued bar on a Wednesday night, a cocktail is poured, and his hand comes to rest on my forearm. I take a drink and let the ice crack and melt off my skin.

I'm going to be re-formatting the way I write these blogs, because I realized this week that my old style just isn't working for me anymore.  My posts are going to look like journal entries from here on out, because that's pretty much how I've been treating my writing as of late.  Without the luxury of professional therapy, I've taken to just writing in random slices and chunks about my life.  I'll probably still have random picture posts and silly stuff, but I'm really going to be using this blog as a way for me to, uh...track my mental progress...

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FUN FUN FUN.