Boston's Man-Eater

XXXVI

I didn't want to care anymore...no sane person would have.

They say that mental health needs more sunlight, more candor, more unashamed conversation, so why did it seem like we were spiraling into something else?

Let's try this one more time, I thought.

It was too soon to quit. Maybe it would get better with time.

Just give her more room.

I spun on my swivel chair and tapped my pen against my lips, my mind plunging into turmoil.

The sky was solemn and gray, with no hope of the day being sunny. Just like the three solid ones that I had not heard from Tess.

Fortunately, I did not let that get in the way of my work—I showed up on time and smiled through everything and everyone. It was for the sake of my sanity.

Naomi was currently seated in my office, fixing her work from my computer so I would continue reviewing it.

It was the clear air between us that disturbed me the most.

She seemed happier and healthier, glowed and radiated happiness which would have repulsed me in another life.

"It's done."

She leaned into the seat. Not only was I satisfied by the article, but it had been an impressive piece of work.

I understood why she was my biggest competitor.

"Good, I'll get back to you when I'm done."

I had expected that she'd take my words as a dismissal. But instead, she had eyes swimming with question, and a secret that I did not want to be in the middle of.

"Are you just going to stare at me or say what's up?"

"Mm, now that you insist, I should say—how are you?"

"I'm fine?" Doubtful.

"Really? That's splendid!" She chirped, and my eyes widened dubiously.

What are you up to?

"Yeah... it is."

"Well I'm fantastic. Thanks for asking," she said disapprovingly.

"I apologize for being rude, but I'm glad you're doing alright."

"Great, so...my boyfriend is hosting a party this Saturday, and I'm inviting you to swing by."

"Boyfriend?" I repeated before my mind caught up with my mouth.

"Yes," she beamed, "His name is Cory, and he's such a sweetheart—he said he'd love for me to invite some friends over."

"Friends?" Again, the failing coordination between my tongue and brain proved to embarrass me.

"Uhm yeah..." The folds between her sandy eyebrows conveyed her assumption of my ignorance.

"Oh."

"So, are you in?"

"Well, I don't know I may have something coming up on Saturday."

That may or may not consist of binge watching my favorite shows with a few beers and an extra-large pizza.

"Oh, don't worry, you can bring Tess too," she suggested, catching me off-guard.

How annoying it was for her to believe that my life revolved around Tess.

"What?"

"You're right, I don't think a posh celebrity would consider hanging around some people at a party that doesn't trade ice for diamonds in their expensive champagne, but hey—you never know."

My face fell at her words.

What is that supposed to mean?

Rhetorical question—it was as clear as day that she had been perceiving Tess as a snobby woman who was disgusted by normalcy. Maybe she didn't prefer our—their parties, and how they're done, but I dared to be offended by her implication.

"You never know," I echoed with irritation.

I glanced at her bobbing throat as she had become aware of my bitterness, so she slowly rose from the chair.

"Yeah, I'll be going. Don't forget, it's this Saturday." —She was gone.

Trade ice for diamonds she said.

I huffed and gazed at the weight on my wrist.

The ticking Piaget watch stared at me, reminding me that I was not its original owner.

I had been so hesitant to wear it. The golden bands that carried the time piece felt all too foreign among my possessions.

Where is Noah?

It was already 12 PM, and I had sent him to the florist down the block a full hour ago. If I wanted to do something, then I needed to leave within the following ten minutes with no other second spared.

And then finally, a timid knock rapped on the door and in came Noah—our company's messenger who had black curls and eyes that could make girls cry.

I envied his sense of quietude and composure, the street apparel that made him stylish.

In my opinion, he was cool. I guessed girls called him cute or hot or whatever.

"I got the roses, but they had run out of red so I picked white." —white roses again? 

But that didn't matter, right?

I couldn't have cared any less about the colors and which kind of symbolic reference they held. It was a fresh bouquet that would suffice...hopefully.

"Thanks Noah," I smiled, and he reached into his pocket for what I guessed was my change.

"You can keep it."

"Cool," he smiled, and I handled the flowers as I left the office.

I didn't need to look around to confirm that people were staring—eyes filled with wonder as they beckoned for me to fill them in on why I had flowers in my hand and what I was intending to do with them.

Oh, fuck them!

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