I drop my head to my desk with a sound of frustration.
This is ridiculous.
I am ridiculous.
I am sitting in a corporate office on a Friday afternoon trying to interpret lingerie like case law.
I need help. Like, professional help.
I lift my head and click into the access summary and force myself to focus on normal things. Work things.
Things that do not involve deep blue lace or Mario Conti’s tongue.
I make it twelve minutes before my email chimes.
A new message appears at the top of my inbox.
From: Mario Conti
My pulse jumps so hard it hurts for a second, and I actually stop breathing.
Quickly, I click.
Ms. Murray,
Come see me before you leave.
M.C.
I wait until 4:47.
Not because I am avoiding him.
Obviously.
I have work to finish. Real work. Important work. There are files to close for the week, notes to send to Benjamin, and one deeply irritating clarification request from payroll that makes me consider whether law school was a mistake.
So, no, I am not stalling.
I am being responsible.
With absolutely nothing left to do, I close my laptop and sit there for a full minute with both hands flat on the desk, staring at the closed door of my office.
Come see me before you leave.
That is all the email said.
It did not say anything about the lingerie.
Of course not. Why would it?
I stand.
I smooth my skirt. Then my blazer. Then the collar of my blouse, though it does not need smoothing. I check my reflection in the darkened window.
Unlike last week, I am still put together. My hair is loose but neatly swept back from my face. My makeup is intact. My mouth is neutral. My eyes are not.
My eyes are a problem.
