I’ve hated my job ever since the first day I started. I never wanted to be an accountant but I fooled myself into doing what would make my father happy. Knowing that it would never make me happy.

And now here I am, Junior VP of a mediocre accounting firm that seems to only have one hiring criteria. Crazy. Everyone in this office is batshit, certifiably insane. God only knows how they get their work done with all of the time they spend annoying the hell out of me.

I’ve considered quitting thousands, possibly hundreds of thousands, of times over the past three years. I’ve got more than six different versions of my resignation letter saved on my computer, just waiting for me to press print.

Most are professional, just in case times get rough and I need to come back:

Dear Mr. Kingsford,

            Working for you these past three years has been a pleasure. Unfortunately I believe that it is time for me to reconsider my professional goals… blahblahblah

But my personal favorite, the one that I want to hand in after every tedious, two-hour staff meeting:

This place is a hellmouth and you’re all incompetent dunces. Peace!

I don’t know how many times I’ve printed one of those letters, proofed it, signed it, sealed it in an envelope ready to drop it in the interoffice mail. But every time I do, I see her. Lena Freeman. And I lose my nerve.

I don’t know how she does it. Maybe she can see through my plastic grin to the general disdain bubbling beneath the surface. Or maybe she knows when I’ve reached my breaking point and she puts in a special appearance to make me stay, remind me why I’ve been here so long.

To see her. Every month. Once a month. For one hour.

Or maybe it’s just that we have a standing appointment at the beginning of each month so that she can ply her trade and I can stare wistfully at a woman I’ll never have.

***

I hate my job. Being a local sales representative for the largest office supply warehouse on the West Coast is horribly boring. But what’s even worse is that once a month I have to go to all of my customers and regale them with the newest office supply minutiae on offer. Paper, pens, bullshit, highlighters, staples, folders, blah blah, white, off-white, bunch of crap, cream, toner, ink, snore.

It’s seriously the most mindnumbing work I’ve ever done in my life. It’s so bad that when all of my meetings are done I have to take a day off. Just one day. To get completely fucked up. Listen to a little Meshell Ndegeocello and cry my eyes out wondering what the hell happened to my life. How the fuck did this happen to me?

I loathe my job generally and there are only two things that make my it bearable. First, three weeks out of the month I work from home. I only communicate with the office by email so I can pretend that I’m unemployed. It’s beautiful.

Second: Jason McIntyre.

He joined Kingsford & Associates accounting firm three years ago. And while yes, technically meeting with him is unnecessary because his office manager fills out the order form online, and he really has no idea what the hell the office needs so I’m not really sure why he continues to meet with me, I don’t care. I need these meetings. I need to see him.

I always schedule my Kingsford visit last. It’s my reward for the week of bullshit I’ve had to put up with. I deserve it. I’ve earned the right to sit in a room with Jason for one whole hour, exactly sixty minutes, just the two of us, to talk paper.

Granted, in my mind, every time he says “100 reams of off-white recyclable printer paper,” I hear, “I want to lick you from head to toe.” And when he says “250 count toner replacement cartridges” I’m sure he’s just told me “I’m hard right now.” So meetings that should be boring as all hell, are actually the best of my life.

And I’ll never have more because I am a pathetic coward.

***

“Lena.” God I missed you.

“Jason.” You’re the only good thing in my life.

“Five minutes early, as usual.” In my mind I think this means you love me too.

“Well I wouldn’t want to make my favorite client wait, now would I?” I couldn’t wait.

 “Favorite client, eh?” I bet you say that to everyone, but I don’t care.

She leans in to whisper, “Don’t tell anyone I said that.” Tell the world. I don’t care. I’m in love with you.

“Shall we go to my office.” You look like dessert. And I’m hungry.

“Absolutely.” You’d never believe what I’ve imagined doing to you in there.

***

60 Minutes Later

“Alright well I think we’re all set.” I don’t want this to end.

“Is that everything?” How do these meetings go by so fast?

“Yea. Unless… you need anything else.” Me. Me. Say me.

You. You. I need you. “Um… no. No I guess not.” I’m a fucking coward.

“Oh… ok then.”

“See you in four weeks,” he said with only the slightest hint of desperation.

“Yep. Looking forward to it,” she said, mentally patting herself on the back for finally telling the truth. Just not all of it.

***

Four weeks. I’m not sure I can make it that long. I was on the verge of running out of here before she walked in today. But then she smiles at me. That soft, easy smile that’s nothing but dimples and teeth. That smile that sends me straight to the bathroom for a little personal time as soon as she leaves. And I can’t help but say,

“Me too. I’ll be here.” For a second I’m sure that I see relief on her face and I convince myself that this is another sign that she feels the same way I do. But it’s gone before I can be sure. It doesn’t matter though because I know that I mean it. I’ll be here in four weeks because of her. She’s the only thing that gets me through each day in this godforsaken pit.

I want to tell her that. I want to tell her that the days I meet with her are the best of my life. That I sit and stare at the elevator doors all morning when she’s coming. I don’t take lunch. I run to the bathroom and back because I’m afraid that I’ll miss her. And even though I know how ridiculous it is to do all this because she comes at the same time every time, I still do it. Because I can’t bear to miss those smooth brown legs when she steps onto my floor. I’ve dreamed about that moment virtually every night for three years and tonight it’ll be all I can think about.

But I don’t say any of that. And I’m starting to wonder if I ever will.

***

Four weeks is too long. Too damn long.

I  always scheme to drop by before then to check that the shipments arrived so that I can see him again. Maybe chat him up a bit. Or maybe even just call to pitch some of our newest overpriced wares. Hear his voice.

And sometimes I convince myself that next time I’ll ask him out for a drink or dinner to thank him… um and the company for their patronage. And I imagine that when we’re sitting across from one another at my favorite little trattoria downtown he won’t be able to keep his eyes off of me. I’ll wear the gray, clingy jersey dress and pumps that’ll make his throat go dry. And after a couple of bottles of wine we’ll share the best tiramisu in the city and I’ll tell him that I’ve had more than a couple of naughty dreams about him. I’ll finally tell him that I think he’s amazing and I obsess about what I’m going to wear for days before I see him and spray on my best perfume just for him. Because I want him.