Work

On being shown to his office on his first day of work there, he was surprised by the unusual luck of having as his sole companion in that small room such an attractive woman. She smiled so warmly on introduction, but that being the start of his new job, he had other things on his mind, other tensions, and so on the day she was no more than a pleasant yet inconsequential surprise. He noted the glint of a diamond on her ring finger. She would not become important to him, he decided.

Over the following weeks and months, however, he found that being shut up in the small office with her was not conducive to efficient work. He was a serious person. Dark in mood as in complexion, he took nothing lightly; all major decisions in his life had been, above all, decisions - no letting the current sweep him along.

And he was serious about his job, or at least, had intended to be serious about his job, but it had come to something very different to what he had imagined; it had become a sort of shrine to the woman that fate had placed across his desk. Even the room itself seemed hazy to him, as though incense smoke was wafting through, softening the edges.

Going to work became motivated by looking at her. When she was seated, which was most of the time, he would make do with her head and shoulders, with the charms of her face. He had never seen a face so dominated by its nose; her nose was a great thing, broad and long, but not like his own congested example: hers was expertly designed to supply her with an ample oxygen intake to feed in the energy her bright cheeriness demanded. When he'd had his fill of that feast of a nose, he would take in the rest of her face: full cheeks and a mouth very prone to an open smile that revealed a neat row of perfectly regular, perfectly white teeth. Her smiles quickly became torture to him. Of course her dark eyes shone, as did her almost black hair, scraped back in a pony-tail. Her olive skin was flawless. Of course it was.

She favoured collared shirts under black or grey sweaters, and as she leaned forward, facing her screen, or looking over papers lying on her desk, it was hard to discern much of her shape. When she did stand up though, the intensity of the torment increased, for the fullness of her chest and the curves fortifying her (usually black) trousers were then on display, sending blood flushing into his face and allowing him to feel, against his wish, an all-too-prominent thumping in his own chest. He hoped she didn't hear that drum. Trying to conceal it only made it worse.

For months he endured her; for months he endured being stretched on the rack of his desire, knowing all too well that those were the critical first months of his new job. He pretended to concentrate on his work. Behind his mask he concentrated only on fantasies involving the woman sitting not two metres in front of him, interrupting them only to steal scans of her, to burn her image more deeply into his mind's eye.

He began to develop a theory that she was in there with him for a reason. She was an opportunity he had to take. A significant something. A certain day put his theory to the test.

She sat next to him, up close, explaining papers lying before them on his desk, their two faces were bowed forward. Her face spoke a stream, but her words soon faded out; his perception was fully occupied by the down on her cheek. That smooth, browned skin was so close. Her lips and their texture... Those lips moved but all he heard was his heartbeat. Surely he had to act? So close were those lips, too close, getting closer, swooping, zooming in and simultaneously his hand clutched at the closest hip, but no, no! Her face pulled back fast and although he tried in desperation to follow, it receded even faster and was out of reach; her hand swatted his off her hip as she stood up and backed away several steps. All was lost.

Her eyes were wide and wild and she stared in shock. In angry silence he returned her stare as the thumping in his chest and the throbbing at his temple synchronised.

Then there was speech. From her:
"You can't do that."
"I'm sorry."
"It's not acceptable."

He tried to think of words. It took a while before they came.
"This job... it means a lot to me. Everything."
She continued her stare through another silence. Finally, she said:
"Find an excuse to change rooms. This week. I'm sure you'll come up with something."
He nodded.
"Thank you," he mumbled.

He returned to his work after she sat down. Fear of allowing the humiliation of what had happened to even touch his thoughts kept him unusually focussed; he didn't dare pause. At a respectable time to leave the office, she went home. He stayed a while longer until he felt his concentration dip. As he got up to leave, he looked around the room. It seemed different to him now: everything was sharp and clear and cold; surfaces in sterile shades of cream and beige were edged by the harsh cuts of jarringly straight lines.