2
When I get to the office the next day, everything seems fine. I run into Miguel and can’t help but smile. If Miguel and my supervisor only knew what I’d seen . . .
“Good morning, Judith.”
“Good morning.”
Miguel is very attractive. From my first day in the office, he has been wonderfully helpful, and we get along great. Just about everyone at work is drooling over him, but—I don’t know why—he just doesn’t have the same effect on me. Of course, now, knowing what I know and seeing him in action, I can’t help but think of him differently.
“Don’t forget we have a staff meeting this afternoon,” Miguel reminds me.
“Uh-huh.”
He grins, grabs me by the arm, and says, “Hey, let’s take a break. I know you’re dying for some coffee and toast from the cafeteria.”
I grin too. He knows me well. Besides being handsome and charming, the guy doesn’t miss an opportunity to be attentive. That, along with his perpetual smile, is Miguel’s greatest charm.
When we get to the ninth-floor cafeteria, we step up to the counter, place our orders, and head to our usual table. Paco and Raúl join us. They’re a gay couple I like a lot. They kiss my neck and make me laugh, like they do every morning. As the four of us begin to talk, I remember the scene last night in the parking garage.
“You seem distracted. What’s going on?” asks Miguel.
That brings me back. I look at him and try to forget the images running amok in my mind.
“I am. My cat is sick, more listless with each passing day, and . . .”
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” responds Miguel as he takes my hand.
We talk about my cat for a little while, and that makes me sadder. I adore Curro, but he is slowly dying, and he will probably not be with me much longer. It’s something I’ve been dealing with since the vet gave me the bad news two months ago, but it’s still really hard. Curro’s a dear old thing, and in spite of the medication, there’s not much more to be done than spoil him and love him as much as possible.
Suddenly, my supervisor appears, surrounded by several men, like always. Miguel glances up at her mischievously. I stay quiet. She is a very attractive woman. A very intense fifty-something brunette, she’s the love-’em-and-leave-’em type, not exactly single, who’s been at the center of various scandals at work. She takes care of herself like it’s nobody’s business and doesn’t miss a single day at the gym.
“Judith,” Miguel says to me, “are you going to be much longer?”
I take my eyes off my boss and return to my breakfast. I swallow my coffee. “Finished!” I answer.
An hour later, after making copies and completing the paperwork for another contract, I head for my supervisor’s office.
“Here is the final contract for the Albacete branch office.”
“Thank you,” she responds while eyeing the documents.
Following protocol, I remain standing until she gives me my next assignment. The telephone rings, and before she can even look at me, I’ve answered it.
“Mónica Sánchez’s office. This is Ms. Flores, her assistant. How may I help you?”
“Good day, Ms. Flores,” responds a deep male voice with a slightly foreign accent. “This is Eric Zimmerman. I’d like to speak with your supervisor.”
On recognizing the name, I quickly respond, “Just a moment, please, Mr. Zimmerman.”
Hearing me, my boss drops the documents and, practically tearing the receiver from my hands, smiles charmingly into the phone.
“Eric, how wonderful to hear from you,” she says. She continues after a brief silence. “Of course, of course. Oh, you’re already in Madrid?” Then she lets loose a laugh that’s faker than a euro with Popeye’s face. She whispers, “Of course, Eric. I’ll wait for you at two in the lobby and we can get something to eat.”
She hangs up and stares at me. “Get me an appointment with my hairdresser in half an hour. Then make a two o’clock reservation for two at Gemma’s Restaurant.”
Five minutes later, she shoots like a rocket out of the office and returns an hour and a half later with her hair even more lustrous and beautiful and her makeup retouched. At quarter to two, I see Miguel knock and enter her office. Oh my God! I don’t even want to think about what they might be doing. After five minutes, I hear laughter. At five to two, the door opens and they both exit.
“Judith, you can go to lunch now,” my supervisor says. “And remember, I’ll be with Mr. Zimmerman. If I’m not back by five and you need anything, call me on my cell.”
As soon as the evil witch and Miguel leave, I sigh with relief. I let my hair down and take off my glasses. Later, I pick up my things and head for the elevator. I get on, and the doors close. Suddenly, between the sixth and fifth floors the elevator jerks, then stops abruptly. The emergency lights come on, and Manuela, who works for a messenger service, starts to shriek.
“Oh Mother of God, what’s going on?”
“Calm down,” I respond. “It might be a blackout, but the lights will come back on soon.”
“How long is it going to take?”
“Well, I don’t know, Manuela, but if you freak out, it’ll make things worse, and it’ll seem like an eternity. Just breathe, and we’ll have lights again in no time.”
Twenty minutes later, there are still no lights, and Manuela, along with several girls from accounting, is panicking. I realize I have to do something. I don’t like being stuck in an elevator any more than they do. It overwhelms me and makes me sweat. But if I panic, it’ll be worse. I pull my hair up off my neck, holding it in place with a pin. Then I give Manuela my bottle of water and joke around with the girls from accounting while I pass out strawberry-flavored gum. It’s getting hotter in here, so I take a fan from my bag and try to cool off. It’s so hot!
Just then, one of the men leaning against the elevator wall takes my elbow.
“Are you all right?”
Without looking at him, and continuing to fan myself, I respond, “Uff. You want the truth? Or should I make something up?”
“I’d rather the truth.”
Now being playful, I turn to him. Suddenly, my nose collides with a gray sport coat. He smells very nice.
I immediately take a step back to see who it is. He’s tall. I only come up to the knot on his tie. He has brownish hair, leaning toward blond. He’s young and has clear blue eyes. I don’t recognize him at all, and seeing as he’s waiting for my response, I whisper so only he can hear me.
“Between you and me, I’ve never liked elevators, and if they don’t open these doors really soon, I’m going to lose it,” I say, still fanning myself. “Believe me, you don’t want to see me like that. I start foaming at the mouth, and my head spins like the girl from The Exorcist. It’s quite a scene.” I’m getting more agitated, but I’m really trying to calm down. I ask him, “Would you like a piece of strawberry gum?”
The funny thing is, he takes it, opens it, and sticks it in my mouth. I accept, a bit surprised, and without knowing why, I unwrap another stick and do the same to him. Grinning, he accepts too.
I look over at Manuela and company. They’re overwrought, sweaty, and flushed. To keep my own hysteria in check, I attempt a conversation with the stranger.
“Are you new at the office?”
“No.”
The elevator jerks, and everyone starts screaming. I follow suit. I grab the man’s arm and twist his sleeve. When I realize what I’m doing, I immediately let go.
“I’m sorry . . . so sorry,” I apologize.
“It’s OK, no big deal.”
But I can’t calm down. How can I calm down when we’re trapped in an elevator? I feel a burning sensation on my neck. I open my bag and pull out a small makeup mirror. I check things out and start to curse.
“Shit, shit! I’m getting hives!”
The man looks at me, surprised. I turn and show him.
He nods and I scratch.
“Don’t do that,” he says, taking my hand. “It’ll make it worse.”
He bends over and blows on my neck. Oh God! He smells so nice, and it feels so good! Two seconds later, I realize how ridiculous I must seem when I moan.
What am I doing?
I cover my neck and try to change the subject.
“I was just going out for lunch, but the way things are going, I probably won’t eat today.”
“I imagine your supervisor will understand and will let you come back to the office a little later.”
This amuses me. He doesn’t know my supervisor.
“That’s quite an imagination.” Curious, I ask, “Your accent is . . .”
“German.”
That doesn’t surprise me. We work for a German company, and there are Germans in and out all day long. But I can’t help myself, and I look at him with a malicious smile.
“Good luck in the Euro Cup!”
He shrugs. He’s quite serious. “I don’t care about soccer.”
“No?”
“No.”
Maybe it’s because my family, friends, and I are huge fans, but I’m always surprised when somebody doesn’t like soccer. I swell with pride over our team and mutter, “Well then, you don’t know what you’re missing.”
He comes close to my ear again, giving me goose bumps.
“Win or lose, we accept the final score,” he whispers to me.
He takes a step back and returns to his prior position.
He must have heard what I said. I turn around so I don’t have to see him. I glance at my watch: it’s quarter to three. Shit! I’ve lost most of my lunch break, and now I won’t have time to get to Vips for my favorite club sandwich. I guess I’ll just stop at a bar on Almudena Street and grab something quick.
Suddenly, the lights come on, the elevator renews its trajectory, and all of us trapped inside applaud.
Curious again, I turn to look at the stranger who was worried about me. In the light, he is taller and sexier, and he’s still looking at me.
When the elevator reaches the first floor and the elevator doors pop open, Manuela and the girls from accounting stampede like wild horses, screaming hysterically. I’m so glad I’m not like that. The truth is, I can be a little boyish. My father raised me like that. When I step off the elevator, I’m taken aback to see my supervisor standing there.
“Eric, for the love of God!” she says. “When I came down to meet you for lunch and got your text saying you were stuck in the elevator, I was so worried. What a nightmare! Are you all right?”
“Perfectly fine,” responds the man who was talking with me only moments before.
Suddenly, my head is swirling. Eric. Lunch. My supervisor. The person I just told my Exorcist bit to and whose mouth I shoved a piece of strawberry gum into is Eric Zimmerman, the superboss? I blush a bright red and refuse to look at him.
God! I’m so ridiculous. I want to get out of here as soon as possible, but then someone grabs my elbow.
“Thanks for the gum, Miss . . . ?”
“Judith,” responds my supervisor. “She’s my assistant.”
The now-identified Mr. Eric Zimmerman turns to me. “Then it’s Miss Judith Flores, right?”
“Yes,” I respond like a fool—like a total fool!
My boss gets tired of not being the center of attention and grabs him possessively by the arm, pulling on him.
“What do you say we go eat, Eric? It’s late!”
I lift my head and smile. An instant later, that impressive man with clear blue eyes steps away, but just before going out the door, he turns and looks right at me. When he finally disappears, I sigh and wonder why I couldn’t have just stayed quiet in the elevator.