Maturity
I’ve been working on a proposal for exactly twenty-seven minutes and I’m ready to jump out my fucking window I’m so bored. I check my e-mail three times and then decide I need a real break. I get up and head to the kitchen, where I plan to spend at least ten minutes stirring two packets of Splenda into a cup of green tea while I think about fucking Holly. When I get to the kitchen, I find Holly there, talking to some kid we just hired in the mail room. He can’t be older than twenty-three.
As I pass Holly, I say, “Hey.”
She says, “Hey,” back to me and then continues her conversation with this douchebag while I make my tea.
The douchebag says, “No, this place is seriously chill. You’ll love it here.”
Holly says, “How long have you worked here?”
The douchebag says, “I’m in my third month. Just doing that mail-room thing until I get promoted, which is probably going to be any day.”
I want to kick this little fucker in his balls so hard he dies. Instead I say nothing and take my hot water out of the microwave and drop a teabag in it. As I let it steep, I continue listening.
Holly says, “That’s cool.”
The douchebag says, “Yeah, I know. I figure I’ll work here for a few years, work my way up that old chain, then bounce to a new place, get that salary bump and shit.”
Holly says, “That’s a good plan.”
The douchebag says, “Yeah.”
It’s only at that point that I realize that neither of them is actually doing anything in the kitchen. They’re not getting drinks. They’re not making food. I can only guess this little shit saw her go into the kitchen for something and followed her in. Even though she’s dicking off just as much as he is, I rationalize that she’s only an intern, and immediately place the blame for their slacking on him. Nonetheless, I say nothing as I pour two packets of Splenda into my tea and start stirring as I listen to their conversation.
The douchebag says, “You should hang some time. Me and like four of my boys are renting this sick pad in the hills. We party up there constantly.”
Holly says, “Five of you? How many bedrooms?”
The douchebag says, “Three. It’s chill, though. Big bedrooms, and we have a sweet couch to crash on if one dude wants the room to himself for . . . you know, like if we have a chick over or something.”
Holly says, “Cool.”
The douchebag says, “Yeah, it’s fly. So hook me up with your number and I’ll text you when we have our next party.”
Holly says, “You know what, I just switched phone numbers and I can’t even remember what my new one is.”
The douchebag says, “What’s your e-mail then?”
I can’t tell if he can’t take a hint or if he’s just a ballsy little fuck who won’t take no for an answer. Either way, she caves and gives him her e-mail. He says, “Sweet, I’ll hit you up,” then leaves.
Holly turns to me and says, “I thought that guy would never leave.”
I say, “Why’d you give him your e-mail then?”
She says, “To get rid of him.”
I say, “He was kind of a douche, wasn’t he?”
She says, “All guys my age are. They’re just stupid little boys.”
An irrational wave of images of Holly and me dating floods my head. I conjure scenarios in which she agrees to be my secret mistress. I imagine Alyna and my kids dying in a car crash and Holly being there to console me and eventually becoming my much younger wife. I feel immediately guilty about actually imagining my children dying.
I say, “You don’t date guys your own age?”
She says, “I have, but I think I’m ready for a guy who’s like a little older, you know? Like mature and everything.”
I can’t help myself. I say, “How much older are you talking about?”
She smiles and says, “I don’t know, maybe like around however old you are.”
I wonder if she can possibly imagine how hard I’m fucking her in the fantasy I’ve conjured of me ripping her skirt off and bending her over the table in the kitchen. I wonder if she knows that me thinking about her ass and pussy and tits is what has rendered me incapable of speech. I wonder if she knows exactly how to play me and that’s what she gets off on. I wonder if she has no intention of dating a guy my age, of dating me. I wonder if the thought of us fucking repulses her. I don’t care. It doesn’t repulse me.
She says, “Well, I should probably go file some things or something. I’ve been in here a while.”
I say, “Yeah,” and watch her perfect ass bounce out of the kitchen. I sip my tea and wish I was young but hope she wasn’t just fucking with me, because I am not young. I am mature.