5
The next day at work, I enter my supervisor’s office to look for some files, and sigh at the memory of what occurred there the day before. I’ve hardly slept. My mind has not stopped thinking about Mr. Zimmerman and what happened between us.
Miguel comes in, and together we go have breakfast with Paco and Raúl. The whole time I’m watching the door, waiting for Eric to appear, but he never shows. I’m disappointed.
Back in the office, I’m just turning on my computer when my phone rings. It’s the receptionist. She says there’s a young man with a flower delivery, asking for me. Flowers? No one’s ever sent me flowers, and I know very well who’s behind these: Zimmerman.
My heart beating a mile a minute, I meet the elevator as the doors open and a young man with a red cap and a beautiful bouquet steps out. As soon as he sees me, he rushes over.
“Are you Ms. Flores?” he says.
The bouquet is spectacular. Gorgeous yellow roses.
The young man looks at me and I nod, finally. He hands me the bouquet.
“Sign here,” he says, “and please give the bouquet to Mónica Sánchez.”
My jaw drops.
They’re for my supervisor?
My happiness vanishes. Those brief seconds of joy when I thought I was someone special are erased in a blink. Not wanting to give away my disillusionment, I take the bouquet, but I’m on the verge of tears. It would have been so lovely if they had been for me . . .
I put the bouquet on my desk and sign the slip the young man has handed me. Once he leaves, I take the beautiful flowers to my supervisor’s office. I leave them on her desk and turn to leave. But that’s when curiosity gets the better of me, so I turn back and look for the card amidst the flowers. I open it and read: Mónica, next time, seconds? Eric Zimmerman.
It makes me furious. What does he mean, “seconds”?
I quickly put the note back in its place and exit the office. My mood is black. I hope no one so much as coughs in my direction in the next few hours, because they’re going to pay dearly for it.
I can’t get that “seconds?” out of my head. Then my supervisor comes in as I’m typing up a report on my computer.
“Good morning, Judith. Come into my office, please,” she says without even glancing at me.
No! Not now.
She sees the flowers as I step in and close the door. She picks them up. She reads the card, and I see her smile. My neck itches.
“I’ve been talking to Roberto in personnel,” she tells me. “The company is making some changes. I had a very interesting meeting yesterday with Mr. Zimmerman, and they’re going to make a few adjustments at some of the Spanish branches.”
Hearing that she had an interesting meeting really irritates me. But then the phone rings, and I quickly pick it up. “Good morning. Mónica Sánchez’s office. This is her assistant, Ms. Flores. How may I help you?”
“Good morning, Ms. Flores.” It’s Zimmerman! “Could I speak with your supervisor?”
“Just one moment, please,” I utter, my heart racing.
It’s no surprise that as soon as I tell my supervisor who it is, she claps and signals for me to leave the office. As I’m closing the door behind me, I hear her. “Hi. Did you get back to your hotel all right last night?”
Last night? Last night? What does she mean, “last night”?
But he was with me last night! Then, quickly, my prodigious imagination puts together what happened. She must have been the person he was speaking with on the phone in the car. He left me at home, then went to meet her. Did they go back to Moroccio?
I’m angrier with each passing second. But why? There’s nothing between Mr. Zimmerman and me. We merely went out for dinner. He touched me over my clothes, and together we witnessed a sexual spectacle. Does that give me the right to be angry?
I return to my desk and my computer. I have to work. I don’t want to think. At one o’clock, my boss emerges from her office and winks at Miguel. He gets up, and they leave together. I know what they’re going to do.
I’m so angry that I work with vigor and clear off a bunch of paperwork. At about two thirty, Óscar, one of the company’s security guards, comes over to me.
“Mr. Zimmerman’s driver left this for you,” he says, handing me a large envelope.
Dumbstruck, I see the sealed envelope has my name on it. I nod at Óscar, and he leaves. I just stare at the envelope for a while, and without knowing why, I toss it in a drawer.
The telephone rings. I pick it up, and after the usual office greeting, I hear a voice on the other end. “Have you opened what I sent you?”
Zimmerman! I don’t respond.
“I can hear you breathing. Answer me.”
A thousand things cross my mind. The first is “You’re so bossy!” The second is worse.
“Mr. Zimmerman, it just got here. And I’ve decided to leave the matter for Monday,” I finally say.
“It’s a gift for you.”
“I don’t want any gifts from you,” I whisper in a thin voice, surprised at his words.
“Why not?”
“Because.”
“Oh, Ms. Flores, come on. Open it, please.”
“No,” I insist.
I hear him sigh . . . I’m making him mad.
“Please, open it.”
“Why do I have to open it?”
“Jude, it’s something I got for you.”
Well now . . . I’m back to Jude?
But since I’m a softie, a fool, and—most important—an innately curious person, I open the drawer, pluck out the envelope, and rip it open.
“What is this?”
I hear him laugh.
“Well, you said you were willing to do anything.”
“Oh, well . . . I . . .”
“You’ll like it, sweetness, I promise,” he says, interrupting me. “One is for home, and the other is so you can carry it in your bag and use it anywhere at any time.”
Hearing the tone of his voice when he says “any time” makes me catch my breath. God, here we go again!
“I’ll be at your apartment at six,” he says before I can respond. “I’ll show you how they work.”
“No, I won’t be there. I’ll be at the gym.”
“See you at six.”
He hangs up.
As I listen to the buzzing on the other end of the phone, all I want to do is scream out hundreds of improprieties. Furious, I hang up.
I look inside the envelope again and read the words: “Fairy Vibrator Japanese Star.” I let out a long breath. I finally put it in my bag, place my elbows on my desk, and drop my head in my hands.
“I should stop this,” I say in a low voice. “Right now.”