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.