I flush, recalling midnight last night, our post-ballet hijinks, a moment or two on Christmas…and a scenario involving a pair of red heels I just may have the nerve to try out tonight. Probably.
The End
And now for something completely different…
Just over one year ago:
7:58 a.m.
THERE ARE DEFINITE REASONS I arrive at work before everyone else, and this little sojourn into metal box hell is a prime example.
Marketing trials are 85% positive for the new labeling designs. If we…
Smashed into the far corner of an elevator—and forced to interact and smell people with whom I would cheerfully go to my grave never having encountered—is not a great start to the day.
Only 72% for the teen target market. There has to be a way to appeal more. Maybe a re-package…
Is that my phone? No.
But finding that my assistant had failed to bind the reports and distribute them yesterday was no way to start this day either.
That Nebraska printing company’s bid was so far below everyone else’s. Need to verify that they have the specs right.
That was definitely my phone this…
“Good morning, Mr. Canon.”
I nod once. “Morning.” Whoever you are.
I grab my phone and scroll through items while more people load and shift around like tiles in a child’s puzzle game.
What would improve the percentages?
Conference at 4:00 today.
Dinner meeting at 6:30 with the Germans.
Need the counter bids for—
Everyone shifts, and I press myself flush against the back wall. Then they shift again, no doubt allowing yet another person onto the elevator. If we don’t all plunge to the sweet release of our deaths, it will be a certified miracle.
Grand. The person now in front of me is nearly on top of me.
What the fuck?
Is that?
Yes, it is.
That is someone’s ass pressed up against my dick.
A round, pliant, warm ass.
She’s a brunette and comes up to my chin. That’s about all there is to say. She is all wavy, long tresses and a red dress of the simple¸ elegant variety. I don’t seem to recognize her. I also can’t see her face. That doesn’t really mean anything as I don’t normally dedicate much gray matter to employees who sit in cubicles. They might as well work for any of the other businesses that share this building, as far as I’m concerned.
I might’ve willfully opted to reserve a few brain cells for this particular figure though.
“Sorry.” I barely hear her voice. As the elevator starts its climb, her hand braces against my thigh, but I doubt she even realizes she’s done so.
“Not your fault.” I hear my own voice like that of a stranger.
Now, I’m at a loss as to why I would say that, why I would try to make her comfortable. It most assuredly is her fault. She is groping me and not respecting personal space. Crowded or not, there are some things one simply does not do.
One does not rub against strangers in elevators or grab onto legs in close proximity to dicks that have been in recent contact with lovely asses.
Lovely…
I shake my head and clear this train of thought, utilizing my phone as a suitable distraction while scanning and forwarding emails.
Percentages are—
Market tria—
It’s hopeless. I can’t think clearly with her pressed against me.
And it pisses me off.
The elevator ride with her can’t be over fast enough. My floor is next and it is still taking far too long.
I resolve to never take the elevator again so that I can avoid this distracting person henceforth.
The doors open, and I make to move around her…but I can’t. I can’t move around her because she is already gone and has taken her pretty ass and what I now see are red heels along with her, passing through the doors onto my floor and into our open office area.
Well, this is terribly inconvenient.
The doors close, and we’re up another two floors before it registers that I’ve failed to exit.
2:58 p.m.
L ETTERHEAD C URRENTLY S AYS “Limited Liability Corporation” not “Company.” No such thing. Fix that.
KC Company is ripe for merger or buyout.
Conference call in one hour.
Dinner reservations confir—
That last thing I need to see when I leave my office is the first thing—the only thing—I manage to see.
She’s standing up among the cubicles. Volumes of hair and her red dress practically a dead-center bull’s-eye in my line of vision. Charts and banners and everything fade away, ceding to the contrast of porcelain skin against auburn waves. The whole room is mere concentric circles leading toward her face.
And, of course, even from this distance I can tell she is rather pretty. The fact that she’s not a hag with a comely figure is, of course, par for the day.
She’s probably ugly on the inside. I’ll cling to that hope.
Crap. What was I leaving my office for? I keep walking steadily, not letting the thoughts tripping my mind find their way to my feet.
I realize I am still looking at her as I begin to turn down the hall. I blink away. Shake her image from my brain. It has more important things on which to focus. Fine. It is decided. The sooner I ferret out her flaws and irritating habits, the sooner I can get back on task.
I look back one last time.
Acknowledgments
I am forever grateful for the support and inspiration of the collective of friends who were drawn improbably together over affection for one story, kept together through artistic efforts, and remain a constant foundation for one another now. They prove every single day that the coincidence of geography may be overcome to find the most compassionate, creative, and loyal friends that any person could be blessed to have. Look out world should they all be in the same room together one day.
About the Author
Qwen Salsbury was born in Kansas and somehow keeps ending up back there. Raised on her grandparent’s five-acre homestead within the city limits, her imagination was honed during long days of quiet play and spartan access to a TV signal. Now mother to handsome boys, she strives to ensure that they appreciate potential adventures found within the pages of a book, an honest day’s work, and what ingenuity may yield from mundane objects like a string and a cup. The boys prefer a PS3.
After spending time in corporate America, she returned to school and received a BA in English—Creative Writing/Poetry from Pittsburg State University, the alma mater of Pulitzer Prize winning poet James Tate. She worked on a Masters there until going on to receive a juris doctorate from Washburn School of Law.
A seven-time Sigma Tau Delta writing award winner, she has had fiction and poetry appeared in literary magazines and has had stories selected by fiction communities as featured story of the month and year. Predominantly a writer of romance, her romantic fiction varies from contemporary to historical to fantasy, though often with a humorous slant and poetic undertones.