And…thereit was. The line. The one I'd long-jumped past because why merely cross a line when you could medal in an Olympic decathlon of awkward?
Because that was what I did. I made it awkward in ten different ways.
This time, I went there with some funny-mean. The entirety of my conversation with Mr. Yes-I-Am-Very-Posh-and-Proper was rooted in funny-mean, but that last comment, the one about him being happy for a hot second, wasn't funny. It was just mean.
It would've been funny if his frown hadn't straightened into a flat, bloodless line and his gaze cooled by a thousand degrees. It would've been funny if it hadn't been the exact button I wasn't meant to push.
Yet that was my gift. My great talent in a life marked by useless gifts and talents. I was direct and honest, and I saw through the bullshit…thoughdirect,honest, andno bullshitwere gifts best handled like sweating dynamite. I handled them like a sack of soccer balls. I said quick, snappy things that were horribly inappropriate. I made jokes about myself that were unnecessary. I was quippy in a superbly off-putting way.
Once upon a time, in a faraway land, I was giving a presentation to a big group on ancient burial practices in the Hopewell culture. That was my sweet spot—analyzing archaeological evidence of ancient death customs in the indigenous peoples of North America. One woman kept raising her hand with questions that not-so-gently attacked every shred of research in my slide deck. When she raised her hand toward the end of the session and said, "I'm sorry, can I ask one more thing?" I'd replied with "You're not sorry but go ahead, ask anyway."
So, that was great. Almost as great as informing Ash he only knew how to be happy in tiny increments when spoon-fed righteousness.
And now, with my seatmate blinking at the clouds on the other side of his porthole window, I'd well and truly fucked up. Not only did I turn the screws on his soft spot, but I probably cost myself this job. The one I'd nearly landed. Ash probably wouldn't cop to it but he was warming up to me. If I hadn't stomped all over his tender soul, he might've hired me as an interim helper while he searched for someone with the alphabet soup skill set he thought he wanted. I would've been good at it too. When it came to creating lists and plans, organizing things, and making it easier for smart people to do their work, I was the tits. Sixty years ago, I would've been the top student in my secretarial school class, I would've rocked a beehive and cat's-eye glasses, and my shorthand would've been on point.
But, no. No circle skirt, no retro glasses, no wicked typewriter skills. Not for me.
Because not only did I make it awkward on the regular, I was also fully incapable of reversing course. If I tried to clean up my mess, I only succeeded in leaning into the mess. Case in point, the you're-not-sorry incident. An uncomfortable giggle sounded after I'd said it and the woman announced she'd hold her question. That meant I had to push through the remainder of the presentation knowing I had a one-on-one conversation waiting for me after. Since I wanted the whole damn world to know I wasn't a bitch—because the worst thing for a woman to be wasnot nice—I spent that time responding with uncomfortably kind, sugarcoated answers to everyone else asking questions.
It was like,Hey, guys! I amnotthat miserable dragon woman who accidentally burned that lady's head off because she was making Swiss cheese out of my work! I am nice, and nice is good even though it's really bullshit, so please like me and all my niceness!
In the end, I was left with that one-on-one convo from hell. Not unlike this moment right now.
I glanced over at him. Given the way I'd launched myself into this situation, I'd viewed him as the opponent and avoided taking in any of his features. Not a strategic use of time. I'd noticed his hair because it was the stuff of shampoo commercials, and I'd noticed his severely pressed trousers because that crease could slice bread. I'd picked up the basics. Enough to know he was the kind of guy who required things a certain way and that way was both precise and expensive. Now that he was busy blinking at the clouds and resenting my existence, I had an opportunity to look him over.
He was a pretty one. That hair was a good chunk of it. Thick, dark, shot through with natural gold and copper highlights. They had to be natural. That kind of coloring took some coin, and I couldn't see him spending money on highlights when he could invest in aggressive trouser ironing services.
He was a big guy though not so big that he seemed shoehorned into his seat. Broad shoulders, strong arms, trim waist. He wasn't about to Hulk out of his button-down shirt and I appreciated that. There was nothing that stopped me in my tracks faster than spotting man nipples through a dress shirt. Nothing against man nipples but I didn't care to see them poking out at me in the regular course of business.
I shifted my gaze down his body, taking in the long, long lines of his legs. He was a tall one too. I glanced at his shoes, an expensive-looking pair I could only categorize as Fancy Man. But it wasn't the type of shoe that held my attention. It was the old adage about shoes of acertain size.
So, naturally, I choked on my own saliva.
Ash whipped his gaze toward me as I coughed. "Do you need the Heimlich or something?"
I shook my head, still coughing and now flapping my hands in front of my face as if that would help anything.
"This is what you get for eating pocket eggs, Zelda."
I tried to wave him off while wiping tears from my cheeks, which turned into slapping my face and patting his arm. Perfect. Just perfect.
He pushed his bottle of water into my palm. "Drink," he ordered.
I complied, chugging while he regarded me with a wary stare. When I'd drained the bottle and coughed myself back into order, I murmured, "Thanks. Sorry for the—you know—this."
He went on staring. "You're wackier than a bag of hammers."
I laughed at that but covered my mouth because it was a rusty, phlegmy laugh that really tested the limits of tolerable behavior among seatmates. "That doesn't sound like something you'd say."
His brows furrowed a bit. "And why not?"
I tugged my lower lip between my teeth, squinted away from him. Glancing away meant I was looking at his enormous shoes again. What was the rule about the foot-penis ratio? Was it one to one? Or was it simply a matter of the sock fitting either way?
"Zelda," he prompted. "Was your brain deprived of oxygen too long?"
I jerked up, forcing myself to meet his eyes and stop thinking about his dick.Oh my god, I was thinking about his dick!After I'd called him joyless and tyrannical—oh my god, again! What was wrong with me? Why did I do this? Me and my me-ishness, yes, but I wasn't supposed to invite anyone's dick into that riot. Oh mygod."Nope. I'm all right here. All good," I replied. "It just doesn't sound like you. The wacky hammers. You're not a metaphor guy. You're finite, specific, tangible."
He shrugged. "My mom says it a lot. I think I picked it up from her."
