When You Put Your Hands On Me

Damian

When Angel confides in me about the behaviour she has to put up with at work, my appetite disappears. I was starving all day and briefly considered eating my suit jacket, but once she explains about her male co-workers, shame washes over me on behalf of all decent men around the world.

I want to press for answers, but she asks to drop the subject, so I do. Reluctantly.

“I’m not that exciting, if I’m being honest. My career was my focus because… uh… my brother made a lot of sacrifices to send me to university, and I became obsessed with making his sacrifice worth it. There was little time for anything else, but since I switched roles in the company, it doesn’t feel as great as I had hoped it would.”

“What’s missing?”

I pick up my fork, pushing egg noodles around my plate, willing myself to continue eating so I don’t offend Angel or make her think I’m not enjoying her cooking. “Life outside of work. Fulfilment that doesn’t have anything to do with client accounts or company bonuses.”

She nods but doesn’t ask for clarification.

The rest of our meal passes with casual conversation, then we sit on her sofa, talking some more. We avoid reverting to serious topics, which I would have liked, but respect Angel enough to avoid a subject she doesn’t want to address. When Genie is ready for her walk, I figure that’s my cue to leave for the night, but it’s hard to tell myself I’ve had enough of Angel’s company.

We circle the same block we walked earlier with these two females who have tilted my world on its axis over the past few weeks, and for the first time since our misunderstanding eleven days ago, I feel content. Angel and I disagree over whether she’ll walk me to my car or I’ll walk her to her door, and in the end, the gentleman in me loses out because she is hard to argue with. She’s obviously used to doing things on her own.

We say good night and I wait in the parking lot until she disappears inside her building. I drive home, which is only five kilometres away, but, after a long day, feels like it’s on the other side of the province.

I roll my eyes at myself for not getting Angel’s number, but hope she’ll make use of mine.

The following day, I miss out on my lunch hour again, so Paxton orders a meal for me to eat at my desk. We’re in the final stages of three different projects and my entire department is stressed out. I’m becoming more irritated by the day because my staff insist on sending me emails for simple things that could be solved by coming to my office, but it seems that’s a last resort for everyone within my purview.

Michell Donnelly is the first person to darken my door for the past few days, and he does so when I’m tying up a phone call with the same man who wasted my lunch hour yesterday. When Mitchell makes eye contact with me and greets me with a meek wave, I roll my eyes, trying to express my frustration with Mr. Trans Fats. It must not come across that way because Mitchell’s already nervous expression morphs into flat out fear, and he turns to leave.

“Mr. Tra… Mr. Warren, could you hold a moment, please?” I don’t wait for a reply before pressing the red hold button and calling out to my fleeing staff member. “Mitchell, I’ll just be a minute.”

“It’s fine, Mr. Taylor. I’ll send you an email.” He doesn’t wait for a reply before vanishing past the wall of windows toward the employee area we refer to as “the pit”.

I sigh into my hands, aggravated I’m failing to get through to people. The blinking red button is taunting me. I want nothing more than to “accidentally’ disconnect the call, but that would only result in Mr. Warren calling back and having to waste time explaining how our call was cut off. Better to get it over with.

Forty more minutes of my life are wasted encouraging Mr. Warren to provide information from scientific journals backing up his claims on the health benefits of deep-fried or packaged foods. He doesn’t think proof is necessary, and I should just take his word for it since he’s been eating deep-fried food his entire life and is “the picture of health” at age forty-three. His arteries would claim otherwise. The one time I met him in person, my first impression was that he looked like he was in his late sixties and spent several decades as a heavy drinker. Maybe he has, but I’d be willing to guess his high-fat diet has done a number on his liver just the same.

I’m all for a little creative advertising, but an outright lie is a problem. Not only is it a moral issue, but it’s also a legal one, and I’m not putting myself or our company on the line to appease a stubborn, ill-informed man.

Tension is building in my temples, so I massage the sides of my head in slow circles and blow out a breath. I try to think calming thoughts, and the first image to pop into my head is Angel. Not just Angel, but her and Genie, sitting on her couch, back-lit by the falling sun through her patio doors. Just like that, the pain in my head is gone. My heart rate has slowed.

I want to call her. I want to know if she’s tired after a long day yesterday. Not even a lead-brick burger could deter me right now. Seeing her would be worth the digestive distress I’d suffer.

Unfortunately, work is waiting for me, and now that a large portion of my day was wasted on an unproductive argument with Mr. Warren, it’s going to be another late night.

As much as I want to meet Angel after work again, I don’t want to come on too strong, and there’s no way I can get out of here in time to do so. I’ll be lucky to leave the office by 10pm.

At 7:28, my phone chirps, and I glance down to see an unknown number.

416-555-2643: Genie was looking forward to seeing you again.

Immediately, I’m sporting a stupid smile, and of course, at this moment, no one else is around to see it. They only seem to walk in when I’m frustrated or annoyed.

Damian: Tell Genie I’m sorry. Caught up at work.

There’s so much more I want to say, but I’m learning with Angel, less is more.

Angel: Did you eat?

Her concern is touching. It’s been a long time since anyone asked me if I had taken care of myself. For years, anyone who isn’t immediate family has only wanted me to take care of them.

Damian: I did. Had a late lunch. Where are you now?

Angel: Walking home. Almost there.

Damian: …

I start typing but delete my message three times because I don’t know what to say without being too forward. Before I can think of something, she replies again.

Angel: Get back to work. Maybe I’ll see you around.

I reread her message multiple times before I reply.

Damian: I’d rather talk to you or walk with you, but I have to get this done. Message me tomorrow?

She takes thirty minutes to reply and concentrating during that time is difficult. When my phone pings again, I reach for it fast enough I would be embarrassed if anyone saw.

Angel: Sorry, walking Genie. Talk tomorrow.

Those two final words set my mind at ease and allow me to power through as much work as I can with a smile on my face. When I return home with a bag of takeout at 10:40pm, I eat, shower, and crawl into bed feeling content and looking forward to tomorrow.

The following few days, Angel and I text back and forth, our conversations always light and carefree. She brings out a different side of me that I thought had long since disappeared. Her playful personality always makes me smile, and I’m eager to see her again.

My work schedule has been so demanding and the one day I had off, I went to visit my brother and his family. Aside from that, I’ve barely had time to sleep. Talking to Angel has been my only “down” time.

So when the bulk of our projects wrap up Friday morning, I breathe a sigh of relief, and the only thing I want to do is celebrate with her. I holler at Paxton that I’m going out for lunch and walk to my favourite-least-favourite restaurant. Abysmal food, stellar service. Right now, it’s the only place I want to be.