...then put it back down on her desk. It was 2:51. She was meeting Steve in his office at 3:00 to show him her latest wire frames, to get his approval to proceed with the thematic direction she had found herself taking. She picked up her tablet again and swiped through the screens. Last night she had been so psyched about what she had come up with this past week; she looked at them now and truly had no idea whether they were good or not.
She glanced at the time at the bottom right of her laptop screen. 2:55. She needed to leave now to make it to Steve’s office on time, and there was no way on earth she could be late. A flash of panic came and went. She stood and headed for power alley.
Michelle tapped on the doorframe. “Knock, knock.”
Steve looked up from his laptop and smiled. “Hey, Michelle. Just give me a second to send this email.” He waved toward the couch. “Take a seat.”
His attention had returned to his laptop. She looked around and back through the doorway surreptitiously, then swung the door around and quietly closed it.
What are you doing? A suspicious voice said in her head. I’m just making sure we won’t be disturbed – so we can concentrate, she rationalized back to herself, unconvincingly.
She walked over to the couch, turned and sat down dead center. But that wasn’t quite right. So, she shifted over to the right almost touching the arm of the couch. She looked over at Steve. He was still engrossed in his screen. She shifted back, half the distance. She leaned back on the couch, but that was too informal, so then sat upright, knees together, with her tablet on her lap, and her hands demurely clasped on top of it. But that wasn’t right either. I’m not in freakin’ Sunday school, she told herself. She slid her butt back until the small of her back was touching the back of the couch; she crossed her legs and looked down to see a whole lot of leg. She tugged at the hem of her skirt, then let it ride back to where it had been and glanced over at Steve again. He was in deep concentration, not typing, thinking. She tried to imagine what he was thinking, what problem he was working out, what decision he needed to make, what impact it would have. He was so totally absorbed in what he was doing that she felt her look could linger. His jacket was draped on the back of the chair – it was going to get wrinkled there – and he sat in his shirt sleeves, a pale blue cotton shirt, the colour of a summer afternoon sky. His fingers were poised over the keyboard. Then he drew them back and raised a hand to stroke his chin. What was he thinking?
She drifted into a pleasant fantasy where she stood and walked over behind him and leaned over and put her arms loosely around his neck and kissed his cheek. “How’s it coming, honey?” And she plucked his jacket from the back of his chair. “This needs to be hung up or you’ll look like you slept in it.” And he looked up at her and smiled appreciatively and helplessly. “What would you do without me, silly man?” She pinched his nose playfully and slipped his jacket onto a hanger and set it on the hook on the inside of the office door, and while she was smoothing out the wrinkles, off somewhere just beyond her awareness, was the clicking sound of fingers on a keyboard.
“Okay, I’m all set,” Steve said, looking over at her, directly into the eyes that had been dreamily resting on him, the sound of his voice jerking her out of her reverie and into the realization that he would know she had been staring.
She looked away, and then back. “Okay then,” she said, feeling her face redden. She uncrossed her legs, then crossed them again. “Let’s get down to business.” Let’s get down to business? Seriously?
But, Steve was picking up a pen and a leather portfolio, ready to shift his attention to her-- to her User Interface mock ups. He strode over and plunked down beside her.
“Okay, show me whatcha got.”
He opened his portfolio to make notes and smiled at her. A shiver shimmied along her spine.
She swallowed. Then, scolded herself for not chewing some gum. Was her breath okay?
She picked up her tablet and tapped her screen.
She’d been playing around with some designs on subordinate pages, replacing radial buttons with sliders and other alternate control schemes, and was having second thoughts. Maybe she should have thought all this through before showing Steve. Would he think she was careless, unfocussed, sloppy? Maybe she should stand up and tell him she wasn’t quite ready to take his time up with—
“Should I do a drum roll?” He had a lopsided grin, waiting for her to show him her latest wire frames.
He was expecting her to show him something, to report on her progress. He was relaxed and informal, but this was a regularly scheduled update; he was an executive – her executive, two levels above her – and this was the most important project in his portfolio and he was accountable for it to the leadership team. And he had selected her for special consideration – he was mentoring her – because he thought she had potential for – for what?
She felt nauseous.
She wished she could think of an excuse to just leave, to go – but she couldn’t.
She held her tablet close to her, away from his view, which caused him to lean over, trying to peek.
“You’ve aroused my curiosity,” he said, expectantly.
“Steve—I—this isn’t—“
She wanted to cry. For god sake don’t cry like a little baby, like a—a—
Steve had leaned back, backing off, and sat relaxed. He seemed to understand her anxiety and his expression was kind. Which meant he knew she was rapidly dissolving into a mess; his kindness was her indictment: she was supposed to be a professional—he was mentoring her because that’s what he thought she was -- a professional, and here he was—he was patronizing her—indulging her as though she were a little girl playing an off-key piano recital of Au Claire de la Lune.
She struggled to get it together. “Steve—I’ve been experimenting a bit—I’m not really ready to show you--could we--“
“Well, yes,” he said, smiling, “as you must know by now, being perfect myself, I expect nothing less than perfection.”
She nearly swooned. Sweet, wonderful, Steve. He was trying to encourage her, trying to put her at ease. Even if he thought her stuff was complete crap, he wouldn’t be cruel, he couldn’t be. He would be gentle, diplomatic, and constructive—but, god, if he thought it was crap…
“Michelle.” He was looking at her. “Let me see.”
His voice resonated through her body. He looked at her with kindness and command. She was spellbound.
And helpless.
She acquiesced to him. She meekly handed him her tablet, surrendering herself into his hands.
She watched as Steve’s face became intent, watched him assess her work; each swipe to a new screen, revealed another part of her, laid bare to his scrutiny.
She gazed fixedly at him; watching his expression; alert to the judgement it reported. She needed his approval like she needed her next breath.
She saw him nod, solemnly. Then nod some more. With his thumb and middle finger, he swiped to open a screen, opening her, to zoom more intently on something that had caught his attention. He nodded and smiled.
He looked over at her.
“I see where you’re going with this, Michelle. You’re onto something. I like this.”
What she felt was beyond relief, way beyond; it was ecstasy. She looked at his face, his wonderful face, smiling at her, accepting her, approving of her.
She took his face in her hands and kissed him full on the mouth.
Oh my god, is this really happening? she thought, and it was because she felt his lips on hers, and felt his face in her hands, and his hand lightly gripped her upper arm, and then the fingers of his other hand lightly touched her shoulder and gently pushed her back and away and then they were apart and he looked at her with consternation and confusion and she realized his interest and encouragement and kindness and probing fingers on her tablet had absolutely no sexual motivation at all, not one single bit and she slunk back in horror at her stupid delusional childish fantasy and wanted to die, right there on his soft, luxurious leather couch, please god , kill me, kill me—
“Michelle, I—“
She stood suddenly but was wobbly and sat back down sloppily; unladylike, idiotic...She wrenched her features into a brilliant smile, so extreme that it was painful.
“Steve, I—I’m sorry—I—“
Steve took both her hands in his. His grip was gentle but so strong there was no possibility of escape and so she sat, withered and helpless and mortified.
He looked at her with the identical, kind expression of a few moments ago, before she--
She was in despair.
“Michelle, I can’t imagine what a beautiful young woman like you would see in a fossil like me, and—and I’m hugely flattered—gratified—and I would be totally open to—but I’m your boss, and I would be taking advantage—and, the truth is, I’m in a relationship—"
Michelle gathered the last shred of dignity, the badly battered remnant of her pride, and pulled her hands free and stood. Her tablet tumbled to the floor. She leaned over to pick it up, then stood straight as the image of her bending down and fumbling on the floor to retrieve it assaulted her imagination. But what was she going to do? Leave it there? In a kind of collapse, she found herself on all fours, reaching for the tablet, then paused there, hunched over, for a brief moment huddled and hidden from the humiliation that awaited her above. She snatched the tablet and for a fraction of a second frantically sought some kind of remark, some flippant, sophisticated repartee that would leave them both amused, relationship equilibrium restored but nothing came and she turned around on her hands and knees – one hand and knees – the other gripping the tablet to her breast-- rose and stumbled and found her feet and walked to the door and gripped the handle and pulled but hadn’t turned the handle enough so the door resisted and made a pissed off thumping sound and can you not even open a fucking door you stupid bitch? And she ground the handle all the way over and wrenched the door open yes I can open a fucking door and she walked out, head held high, tablet held tightly to her chest and made it to the door of the ladies’ room just as the sobs wracked her body and she slipped inside and was sure nobody had noticed her and thank god there was no one else there and she pushed the door to a stall open and slammed it behind her and sat and held the door closed with her hand and cried liked her world had ended.
Standing, stunned, Steve looked at his open door. Like a smack to the head, he realized that Kelly had been right—of course, she was right. How could he not have seen this coming? Was it possible to be a bigger idiot than he was at this moment? Probably not. He sat down heavily.
The molten heat of the last two minutes crystallized a kind of lens through which Steve clearly observed all his previous interactions with Michelle. What seemed obvious now in retrospect had eluded him completely. Because he was an idiot.
She was a young, ambitious woman, with enormous talent and ability of which she hadn’t fully achieved self-awareness or self-confidence. Unnecessarily, but kind of understandably, she had convinced herself that she needed to offer herself to him to—to—
But, Michelle was in a relationship with Tyler. Didn’t they live together?
His brain began to hurt.
In any case, his patronizing dismissal of what he had thought to be Kelly’s exaggerated jealousy and silly ideas about Michelle now seemed blatantly obvious. How could he have been so stupid? He was fixated on what had just happened with Michelle so the realization of the repeating pattern – Kelly stating facts; him laughing them off – which agitated for his attention, remained just out of his mental grasp.
Tyler turned into the aisle and headed for his cubicle and saw Michelle slumped in her chair. He slowed his pace. He knew she was upset about something; she was sad, or disappointed or demoralized, or—or something. He knew when she was unhappy. He hated to see her like this, and he felt frustrated with himself, because he didn’t know how to make her feel better. He never knew what to say or do--he couldn’t fix it. He stopped and pursed his lips.
He tried to push the thought away, but it kept insinuating itself: if it were Steve McGregor, and not him, standing here, seeing Michelle miserable, he wouldn’t hesitate; he’d walk right up to her and say the right thing and do the right thing and have her sitting up in her chair, probably laughing, and motivated and back to her old self. Fixed.
And that was the kind of thing that attracted her to Steve. And why he was losing her. Who was he kidding?
He watched her. Sitting still. So unlike her because she was always on the go, always focussed, always getting something accomplished. He couldn’t bear to see her like this.
He looked around at the other cubicles. People were staring at their screens, typing, writing shit down, talking on the phone, pretty much oblivious to what was going on with Michelle. He took a few tentative steps toward her and came within arms-length behind her. He reached out, with no idea what to do. He placed his hand on the top of her shoulder and squeezed lightly.
Michelle felt Tyler’s hand on her shoulder; she knew it was him. She felt tears forming – her stupid, stupid, stupid, clumsy, idiotic fuck up with Steve – and now Tyler, of all people, trying in his own way to comfort her—completely out of his own comfort zone—she squeezed her eyes tight against the tears.
Go away, Tyler, she said to him silently. Go far away from me. You sweet boy, I don’t deserve you. You deserve so much better than me.
She reached up and placed her hand over his and the tears seeped through her eyelids and trickled down her cheeks.
Utterly at a loss about what else to do, Tyler leaned down and kissed the top of her head, and then lightly rested his cheek there.
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