The Office

It was years ago, yet she still couldn't look back to her life in
the office without thinking about Him. Sod the office. He was the real
reason that she'd gone in every day for those three years. She had
tried to stop it happening, she really had. Trouble was, the harder
she'd tried, the worse it had become.

Things had started gradually, creeping up on her. You'd think she would
have known the signs by then; not been so na?ve. They'd met at lunch
one day and then they'd started chatting occasionally. In the lift. In
the corridor. In the reception when they arrived or left for work.
She'd never realised that a simple "good morning", "hello", or even
just a smile, could be so highly charged. It was a long time, some
three and a half months, before you could officially say that anything
"physical" happened. In the mean time they'd simply been thinking about
each other. Constantly. Obsessively. She soon became hooked, addicted
to the rush of adrenalin whenever she saw him. Merely seeing an e-mail
from him pop into her in-box filled her with nervous anticipation and
thrilling excitement.

One morning she'd arrived at work, tired. She knew she'd never get
through another day in this boring job without coffee, strong and
black. The jar on her ledge stood almost empty, two tiny grains of
powder left. She sighed and pootled along to the I.T. department's
cupboard in the kitchen. She knew the guys in I.T. They wouldn't mind.
She helped herself to a spoonful, filled up with hot water from the
dodgy boiler and made her way back along the corridor to her office.
She opened the one and only message in her in-box:

"Morning beautiful, just saw you ahead of me, you look lovely today.
You look lovely from behind. How are you?"

She replied:

"Fine thanks, a bit tired though. Just had to borrow some coffee from
I.T. to wake myself up. Mmmmm? why is it that borrowed coffee tastes
better?"

"Not just coffee." came the immediate response.

Much as she hated to admit it, it was true that part of the excitement
was that he was borrowed. He didn't belong to her. Not yet anyway. She
never thought she'd want a married man. Another woman's man.

They soon got into the habit of constant e-mails, coffee and lunch
breaks together, and snatches of passion in the lift. As soon as the
doors closed he grabbed her towards him, just as she wanted him to.
Each fraction of a moment was savoured and devoured. Desperate.
Passionate. Like their lives depended on it. Once she tried to step
into the lift on the north side of the building?

"Not that one", he'd whispered, with a cheeky smile as he steered her
to the lift on the other side. As they waited for the other lift he
explained:
"This one's eleven seconds, the other's only eight."
She knew exactly how he'd want to spend the extra three seconds. Every
second and every fraction of a second was sacred. Not a scrap of time
to be wasted. He made her feel that every breath she took was
important.

Meanwhile, back in the office the work came in and out of her in-tray.
Her workload was small and she accomplished her tasks quickly and
easily, leaving her plenty of time for the important business of
flirting. No-one guessed she wasn't working. She who looked like butter
wouldn't melt in her mouth, smartly dressed, efficient with her
tasks.

He was not so lucky, nor so skilful. He could not get away with
spending so little time working. He was slipping and he knew it. More
importantly his boss knew it. He'd been slipping so much he'd started
taking work home to compensate. He was becoming exhausted, desperately
trying to keep the two women in his life happy, and the kids of course.
Three women if you counted his boss, but mostly he ignored her. God how
he loved the kids. They were everything. And God how he loved Her. He
couldn't afford to lose any of it. He had to keep on walking this
tightrope, the rope getting narrower and narrower as time went on. He
was really beginning to feel the sweat.

His boss eventually got sick and tired of his sloppy work and his
preoccupation with Her. That, coupled with her particular sensitivity
on the subject of affairs (her husband being a prime suspect), meant
that he was out on his ear. "Redundancy" they called it. "Don't have
affairs in my office" was the unspoken message. He hit the ground
running to his wife, but his heart was still with Her. Torn emotionally
in two. Breaking down. Confessing to his wife. Trying to hate Her. Not
succeeding.

A while back she had forced herself to become hard and shun Him. At
first she was hard, soft, hard , soft. Gradually, the hardness winning.
The only way she could cope. Reinforcing the hard coating daily and
repairing the cracks where he might squeeze through. She couldn't have
all of Him and she couldn't cope with just some of Him. Throwing
herself into ever more disastrously unsuitable relationships to
escape.

Now she looks back on the office and sees Him. Sees The Affair, more in
perspective. Sees how hard she was. How difficult it was for Him. For
them both. She is still bruised and tender. She writes a poem in his
memory:

It was exciting and wonderful
and yet dangerous and destructive;
a thrilling roller-coaster of emotions
that almost ruined us both.
I am so relieved to be free
now I've blocked you out of
all but a small space
in my heart and memory.
Kindly stay behind that wall
thinking fondly of me,
but never ever try to remove the bricks.
They grow more solid over time you know,
and I prefer it that way.

She will never return to the office life.