Public Knowledge
My boss, Lonnie, knocks on the door frame of my office and says, “Need to talk to you for a second.”
I say, “Okay.” As he walks in, he shuts the door behind himself. My neck starts getting hot as I jump to the conclusion that he’s going to fire me for some reason. Spending too much time on Facebook or looking up too many herpes websites are the first offenses that come to mind. I make a mental note that if I do have to get another job after this conversation I will only use my phone to look at non-work-related items.
He sits down across from me and says, “How to say this . . . um . . . Notice you and the new intern have, you know, been kind of close lately.”
I have no idea if he knows I’m fucking Holly. I also don’t know the company policy for shit like this. It’s very possible, likely even, that this place has always had a no-fraternization policy and I just never knew it. Technically she’s not an employee, though. She’s an intern. I decide that’s going to be my defense if he actually knows that we’re fucking. If he doesn’t, I’m fully prepared to tap-dance my way around the truth. I say, “Yeah. She’s great. She works really hard and I’ve helped her on a few projects here and there. She’s really been one of our best interns.”
He smiles and says, “Not really what I meant.”
I say, “Oh. Okay.”
He holds up his left hand, takes off his wedding ring, and sets it on my desk. He says, “Been married for twenty-four years. Never cheated on my wife.”
I’m starting to feel like the guy who stays behind before a hurricane, boarding up his windows and hoping for the best as the storm approaches. I’m fully prepared for Lonnie to dish out some holier-than-thou moral-superiority speech or something, and I’m also fully prepared to tell him to go fuck himself when he finishes. I may not know the company policy about fucking co-workers, but I know you can’t preach religious shit at work.
He says, “First five years, maybe even first six or seven, were fine, fun even. But the last fifteen or so? Basically prison. Don’t care that you’re cheating on your wife. Don’t care that you’re engaging in questionable activities with an intern. Don’t care about that. Do care about what it’s like.”
I’m beyond confused. I say, “What do you mean?”
He sighs and says, “Just want to know what it’s like to . . . you know . . . with a girl who looks like that.”
I’ve never had a conversation with Lonnie outside of the office. We’ve never talked about anything that wasn’t exclusively work-related, beyond maybe some idle kitchen chat about the Super Bowl or the company Oscar pool or something. And now here he is, sitting across from me, apparently asking me to tell him what Holly’s like when she fucks. I’m not even sure I’m hearing him correctly. I say, “Are you asking me to tell you what it’s like to have sex with our intern?”
He says, “Not in graphic detail or anything. Just curious about what it’s like.”
He says that last bit with such a palpable sadness that I wonder: If I hadn’t started fucking Holly, if I’d just toughed it out with Alyna for another fifteen years, would I have ended up just like him? No matter what happens with Holly and me, or Alyna and me, this makes me glad I fucked Holly, glad I got to see what life was like outside the cage, if only for a little while.
I know what he wants me to say, and coincidentally it’s the truth. I say, “It’s great. It makes me feel happy and alive and young again in a way that my wife just isn’t capable of.”
He nods and slides his wedding ring back on. He says, “Some other guys around the office know.”
I say, “Should I be worried about HR or anything?”
He says, “Not sure if there’s company policy against it and don’t really have a reason to look into it. Don’t know and don’t really want to know. Just thought you should know it’s not really a secret, in case you were trying to keep it that way for the wife or anything.”
I say, “Oh. Thanks.”
He stands up, and before he walks out he says, “Just wanted to say thanks and keep up the good work.”
I look at my wedding ring and wonder when the time will feel right to actually take it off.