The Man I Call Strong

Chapter 5: The Man I Call Stupid

My heart races. I stretch my hand out mindlessly and grasp the door knob. 'Don't keep the guy waiting, you ninny.' My inner diva is probably just as anxious as I am to see this man.

My hand shakes as I twist the door knob, holding my breath, the cold metal to my hand. I clench my teeth together and grasp my book tighter then ever.

All color flushes out of my face. I can imagine this thirty year old man sitting at his desk. Hunched over piles of paperwork, staring up at me over his half-moon glasses, judging every little inch of my sad, sorry being as I walk through the large, dark, mahogany doors.

I hold my breath, starting to feel lightheaded from the silence and the suspense. I twist the knob a little farther and then push. I release my breath, my veins starting to beg for oxygen. And with one push, the dreaded door opens. With what strength I have left, I walk in, lead balls chained to my feet. 'You can always run.' I start to ponder my diva's suggestion.

I'm finally in the room and trip over the half opened door, dropping my book on the floor. I retrieve the book and stare at the beautiful, ornate carpeting under my feet. I'm almost sorry to step on it. I look up, the wall in front of me is nothing but glass, looking out onto the buildings of New York. What a sight. Almost as breathtaking as everything else in his building.

On my left, an empty desk sits with different plants in the corners. On my right, a sitting area with comfortable couches and a coffee machine with more beautiful plants. And in front of me, a man. His back is towards me.

He stares blankly out into the azure, clear sky and the cars and people below. I can't see his face. He wears a dark silver suit and long, dark silver, matching dress pants. He has his hands wrapped behind him, one in the other. His legs are slightly spread apart, giving him a domineering sense to his presence.

"Miss LaRue, I presume."

His voice is soft, ominously soft. But it's like silk running across my skin as the silence is broken so carefully and my heart rate starts to quicken. I swallow hard, trying so desperately to speak. I fail. No surprise. Words have a tendency to fail me, often.

"Please. Have a seat." I look towards his mammoth, mahogany desk. It has a large, leather chair behind it. A small, humble chair rests at the foot of the godly desk. He refuses to turn his body toward me, as if he were hiding his face.

I can barely see half of his face in the reflection of the window. I so desperately want to see his face. Turn around. Turn around. By some miracle, my feet remember to move towards the chair sitting in front of his desk while my mind wonders and lurks around the man in front of me. The lead balls on my ankles are still present, and heavier then ever.

"I'm pleased to finally meet your acquaintance, Miss. LaRue." I am less then two feet away from the chair. I could practically touch it, but I have to do what I do best. I must make a fool of myself. I don't lift my feet up high enough for it to resume its trudging march. I fall on my face, releasing my book as it flies to the foot of Mr. Strong's desk. My hands break most of the fall, the soft carpet that smells like detergent stops my hands from hurting.

"I hope you found everything to your liking downstairs." My heart leaps with such palatable joy as I get up, still as silent as ever and retrieve my book. He didn't hear me, which is, frankly, a miracle to me.

Oh thank you God. You are real.

He didn't hear me. Joy leaps through my heart. I sit into the chair, silently, carefully, so I wouldn't knock something over. 'Oh, wait, you already did.' I completely lose track of the conversation Mr. Strong is trying to keep between us as my diva smugly laughs at me.