On the Verge (23 page)

“It’s the end of the semester, shouldn’t you be back at school or something?”

“Well, we don’t go back until February third. I was told I could get three credits if I came in every day of January in addition to the nine I got this semester for three days a week.”

“Don’t you think that’s prostituting yourself for credits?”

“Are you kidding? I would do it for free to get to go to meetings like this.” I think it’s Brian who is kidding himself about this meeting. I hate him and wish there was a seat at the conference table so I could escape his annoyingness.

“Hi, everybody, some of you may already know Rob King.” I wonder if that is directed at me and if Herb knows exactly how well I know Rob King. “He is joining us from corporate to see how we do things and understand our creative process.”

I can tell that the writers feel that this in an unnecessary invasion from an outsider. They see it as symbolic of some kind of change to come. They don’t want to be reminded of how much their “creativity” is dependent on a man like Rob King, a man in a suit. You can feel the tension—unless you’re Brian. He starts applauding for Rob. Everyone awkwardly joins in.

“Thanks,” says Rob, and I feel a little bad for him. “I’m totally interested in your creative process. This is a very successful magazine and I’m attending writer’s meetings at some of our top magazines to understand the process and hopefully take it back to our less successful ones.” They are warming up to him. I want to applaud him again.

The meeting proceeds. Instead of tuning out like I usually do, I finally have something to focus on, Rob King’s hands. I am even more involved with those perfect, masculine hands than I usually am with my daydreams. I can’t stop fantasizing about Rob and wish he would give me some idea that he was having trouble concentrating also. In the middle of the meeting he reaches his hand into the back waistband of his pants and just leaves it there. It’s such a cute pose for a man who supposedly has all this power. I wish we were alone on the conference table.

“Why are you making that noise?” Brian whispers, ruining my life.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I whisper back loudly as Lacey is reading her copy. He starts to moan low. Was I doing that? “Shut up!”

“Excuse me,” says Lacey, and then continues to read. I am so embarrassed, I hope Rob didn’t hear me moaning. Herb finishes
his critique and we applaud. We’ve been here for almost two hours. I get up to get some water from the kitchen. If I take my time, maybe Rob will join me and we can have an encounter in the stairwell. I give him three minutes. I can only fill and drink my water cup so many times.

Horror of horrors! When I try to get back to the conference room, the door is locked. I have to knock to be let back in, thus interrupting Gary as he is reading one of the paragraphs of his article that Jim has a problem with. He isn’t too happy about the interruption. I mutter a “Sorry” and catch Rob smiling at me. How embarrassing. Gary and Jim get into a fight over the use of the word “compulsion.” They ask Rob, an objective third party, to settle it. He thinks the word works, Jim will hate him forever. We applaud and finally we are dismissed. I want to talk to Rob after the meeting, but Herb has him and I can’t find a reason to stay so I go back to my desk and call Tabitha.

“You should have passed him a note.”

“C’mon, Tabitha, I’m out of the first grade.”

“Well, all that fantasizing sounds like you’re in high school. Wanna go to an awful Brazilian dance performance tomorrow?”

“You make it sound so enticing.”

“Well, you know those things. Everyone is entirely too pretentious.”

“They could take a lesson or two from you, Tabitha.”

“Honestly, I should give out my cards.”

“Tabitha Milton, Pursuer of the Fabulous Life. That sounds good—” I look up and there is Rob King standing at my desk, grinning at me “—actually, Tab, let me call you back.”

“Eve? Why does your voice sound so funny? What’s up? Is he there?”

“Yep, great, thanks, ’bye.” I hang up on her and smile up at Rob. “Hi.”

“Hey there, too bad about that lock.” He is teasing me. I think about mentioning his hands tucked into his waistband, but that might sound too obsessive.

“It’s great the way you settled that compulsion problem. Now, I know why you make the big bucks.” He laughs.

“Are you working late tonight?”

“I’m out of here when the clock says 5:55.”

“Do you want to come over for dinner? I make a mean chicken marsala. I think it’s good for a man to know how to make one dish.”

“All he really needs is to have a woman over once, right?”

“Eve, if you’d rather go out, we can—”

“No, I was just being mean. What time?”

“How’s 9:30? I should be home around then, and I’ll start cooking.”

“Do you want me to bring anything?” He grins so I think it might be true about having the woman over only once.

“Dessert, of course.” He leaves and I call Tabitha to give her the play-by-play. She forgives me for dissing her. Then I have to call Rob back and get Sherman to give me directions to where his place is because I was in no condition to remember when I was last there.

At 9:45, Rob opens the door, smiling. He’s got some Billie Holiday on and I can smell garlic. He seems a little harried as he leads me in and gives me a quick kiss. He’s pretty cute with his shirt untucked and his sleeves rolled up. He’s also barefoot. He is moving around the kitchen like he needs to remain in control of all the things that could go wrong with the chicken marsala. He hands me a glass of white wine and kisses my forehead.

“Can I help you with anything?” I say, walking into the living room.

“No, no, just got home a little later than I expected. Make yourself at home and relax.” I hear a huge crash in the kitchen. I flip through his CDs. I sit on the couch and look through his coffee table books. Some nice art books. When I look up, he is staring at me. I slide over on the couch and he sits next to me. He fills my glass with more wine and puts his arm around me.

“So, do you like all these artists, or is this just for show?” He puts his hands in my hair, my neck starts to tingle.

“Um, well, they aren’t my favorite artists, but I do respect their work and—” he kisses my ear “—I think they are entertaining if you’re just—” my neck “—sitting on the couch—” my cheek “—better than TV, don’t you agree?”

“Mmm.” We wind up kissing on the couch and I barely have a chance to set my wineglass down. The book falls down as he kisses my shoulder, twisting up the fabric of my shirt to get to it. I want to just pull off my shirt but that might be too forward. I start to undo more of the buttons on his shirt.

“Maybe we should eat dinner first.”

“Right,” I say, moving my hands on his stomach.

“Okay wait, let me just shut the oven.” He is back on the couch in a nanosecond…

Afterward, we smoke Dunhill Lights. We eat cold, delicious chicken marsala on the couch in our underwear. There really is an afterglow. I decide that my press release on the Act will be only to reveal a few telling things. I don’t want to sound like a lovesick cheeseball.

He kissed the poochie for about a half hour and concentrated on that task like it was the most amazing thing in the world. He has an absolutely godlike chest, and more importantly, at the most crucial moment, he found a way to look in my eyes and say, “Say when.” He settled for a sign (squeezing his shoulders). It really was triumphant and passionate, although I am skipping that part in my press release to the girls and Adrian because I know they would cling to that worse than my subway comment. After the chicken, we consider doing the dishes, but give it a go on the floor instead and then we eat the tiramisu I brought.

He is also a great cuddler, which can be alluded to, because that’s a respectable thing. He doesn’t let go at all in his sleep and wakes me up with some more lovin’. Nice.

“Why are you in such a great mood?” asks Tabitha, who actually pays me a personal visit in the morning. She is looking me up and down, hoping to discover my secret.

“No reason, isn’t it Friday?”

“Those clothes look suspiciously new and generic.”

“I stopped at the Gap on the way in.”

“In, from where? Roseanne said you didn’t come home last night.” I cannot believe they were already on the horn gathering evidence.

“It’s true.”

“So?” I clear my throat and prepare to release my statement calmly and professionally, with the knowledge that every word I utter will be repeated in a higher pitch with much more enthusiasm. I can do it, I’m certain of it.

“Tabitha, it was wonderful. Oh, my God, in the vein of a romance novel, earth-shattering, the prototype for a
Cosmo
article. The man has a gift. He should patent himself, then clone himself. He is that good.” I lower my voice a notch, “I am still trembling.”

“Eww,” says Tabitha, and then her eyes get wider. “Wow!”

“Yes,” I say, “yes, yes, yes.” Herb walks by and smiles. I hope he doesn’t know.

“Do you need a Valium?” Tabitha asks with complete seriousness.

“No, I just need to calm down, honestly I need something mun
dane like this crappy data entry that has piled up. It will focus me, if you will.”

“Wanna have lunch?”

“Honestly, I don’t think I can eat.” Tabitha looks at me suspiciously. “I know exactly what you’re thinking, believe me I’m not acting like this to him. I am cool as a cucumber. Honest. I’ve got my poker face all set.”

“Great, but don’t use another shitty metaphor. I’ve got to get back, but you should call Roseanne. Next time, maybe she’ll bring you some good clothes.”

I don’t call Roseanne right away. I feel like I can’t even talk about it. My stomach is tied in knots, and if I say a word to anyone I’m likely to just explode or something. I’m not usually this much of a sap. I could tell by Tabitha’s concerned face she thinks it’s a score, yes, but a one-time-only thing that I should just not expect too much from. And it’s bad. He is too high up there for me not to feel like I’m violating some kind of employee code. I’m having a real hard time concentrating on anything. It takes me forty-five minutes to send an e-mail about the staff meeting being changed to Monday.

When I do finally call Roseanne an hour later, she is on her other line with Tabitha, getting the story. She’d rather hear it from the horse’s mouth (what is it about booty that reduces me to these pitiful metaphors?) so she comes back on with me. I’m still trying to remain calm and it isn’t easy to give the blow-by-blow (gasp!) at work.

“Next time give me a call, so I know he’s not a psycho killer.”

“There probably won’t be a next time. It’s weird.”

“Morning weirdness?”

“No, not even, I don’t know, it probably shouldn’t have happened. It’s a won’t work weird.”

“Maybe it will. What should we do tonight? I’ve got post holiday blahs.”

“Me, too. I don’t know. Shit, my other line, I’ll call you in a bit.” I switch over. It’s him.

“What are you doing tonight?” Play it cool, I tell myself. Keep him guessing.

“I don’t know, nothing. I really want to see you.” Foiled myself again.

“I know, Eve, I think I’m going to get out of here early tonight. No, I will. I should be able to clear out at 6:30. Everyone is still
clinging to the holidays. Can you wait around?” You are never supposed to wait, you are supposed to be picked up.

“Sure.” When we hang up, I call the girls and tell them my plans. I feel a little bad about Roseanne because I know she’s got the blahs.

I wind up waiting at my desk until 7:30. I’m getting pretty sick of surfing the Net when Rob comes to my desk. He looks stressed. I try my best to be pissed. I check my watch.

“I thought you had adjusted to New York time.”

“Funny, Eve. I’m sorry, I got caught up in something.” I quietly shut my computer and gather my bags. Even though there isn’t a soul around, I can tell he’s nervous about someone busting us. Whatever. I walk to the elevators, leaving him to follow.

“You’re pissed, Ms. Vitali. I’m sorry. I really wanted to see you tonight. I went as fast as I could. Does that help at all?” It does, but he can’t know that. I don’t say anything; we get in the elevator. I stare at the wall and he starts humming a familiar song.

“Hey, you like Aerosmith?” He looks so cute and he starts to sing off key and air guitar “Love in an Elevator.”

“Dork, don’t even think about it,” I say and laugh. He grabs me and gives me a big sweet hug. It shouldn’t be this easy, but it is.

The weekend is a blur. I don’t leave his side. I just keep buying new clothes or wearing his T-shirts. It honestly feels like one of those love montages, from all those eighties movies, except we don’t have any rain scenes. We go out to dinner, we do the deed, we sleep in. There are cold walks in the park, lots of nastiness. We go to brunch on Sunday and hold hands over the table. We rush back to slap skins, and then it’s Sunday night and we are lying on his couch reading the rest of the
Times.
I can’t help but wonder if it’s going to be strange at work.

“Are you done with ‘The City’?” he asks, kissing my hair. I hand him the section.

“Do you ever feel like your life is just Sunday nights? Like everything centers around certain sections of the Sunday
New York Times?
”

“No, I feel like it’s one long meeting.”

“Do you like your job? I mean, is it fun?” He shifts me around so he can look at me.

“Yeah, I like it. I like planning a project, implementing it, and seeing it succeed.”

“You like the power.” He shrugs and looks back down at the
paper. I gather his job isn’t something he wants to talk about with me. We read for a while longer and then go to bed.

On Monday, even the staff meeting doesn’t get me down. I clap enthusiastically when Lacey reads the first installment of her four-part series on women and bikes. I cheerfully gather up the leftover bagels. I laugh when the writers hover by my desk and make fiber jokes. My messages:

“Eve, it’s Tabitha. Are you still alive? I swear you and Adrian are lost in some kind of lover’s wasteland. Why don’t you call me at some point? I met an amazing Brazilian this weekend.” Delete. Mother of God.