It’s one of those times when the hands on the clock seem to be going backward. I never imagined I’d work in a law office but here I am, and today is dragging. During the duller moments at work – and there are plenty of those – I amuse myself by jotting ideas, notes, characters, or just phrases I like, down on Post-it notes and sticking them to the screen of my computer. At the end of the day, I collect them up, shove them in my pocket and take them home to sort through them. I keep the ones I like, ditch the ones I don’t, and staple together those that seem to be somehow connected. At home, I’ve got a drawer full of ideas that one day I firmly believe will give rise to an impressive and much-admired body of literary work. At least that’s the plan; I guess you could never know how these things are going to work out.

I pick up my pen and hastily scribble onto a Post-it: ‘A strange melancholy claimed her. Not sadness exactly, but the ache of things that should be and sadly are not.’

I stare at this for a moment in thought, then cross out ‘sadly’ and replace it with ‘regrettably.’ That’s better. The double use of ‘sad’ bothered me; just seemed a bit redundant. I peel off the note and stick it beside one already on my computer that says: ‘L. makes use of C’s absence to explore the attic???’ That one is part of a story that’s gradually taking shape in my head. It’s important to grab ideas when you have them and nail their feet to the floor before they have a chance to run away. I’m pretty sure that some famous author said that (or something like it,) but I can’t think who. I jot down the phrase ‘nail ideas; feet to the floor,’ just in case it’s original to me. It is a nice little phrase; I can Google it when I get home.

“Talisa?” I turn to see Joanne, who works a few desks down from me. “Coming for a drink?”

I shrug. “Doesn’t seem like I’m going to be doing much else today.”

I get up, and Joanne and I head out the open-plan office.

Law was never a career that I imagined pursuing, and it’s safe to say that it’s not the career I’ll be in for the rest of my life. In fact, it’s not my ‘career’ at all – it’s a convenient and necessary way of making some extra cash so I can afford the MFA program at New York University. I’ve been accepted, but there’s no way I can pay. There’s something to be said for having a real job for a bit. What’s a writer going to write about if she hasn’t got a bit of real-world experience to base her writing on? Writing can’t be all imagination, it has to come from somewhere, and it has to breathe that life back into the reader. I suddenly wish I was back at my desk so I could write that one down – I’m on fire today!

If I’m being honest, there is another reason I chose a job in a law office, a reason I’m not one hundred percent comfortable admitting, even to myself. The thing is, it’s all a bit whimsical, like dreams and pixie dust, isn’t it? Who actually becomes a writer? No one in the Charming family – my family. No one I know, in fact. Dreams are all very well, but when you’ve got bills to pay and food to buy, then they’re suddenly very useless indeed. My landlord isn’t going to accept my hopes and aspirations instead of rent. You have to be really, seriously good to be able to make a living out of following your dreams, and if you fail, then...

Well, then you’re a failure. You’re also a dead weight on your family, and I have no desire to be either of those things.

I’ve always known, from as far back as I can remember, that what I wanted to do with my life was tell stories, but at that age I had also wanted to be a koala bear and eat paste. Just because two of those dreams didn’t pan out, doesn’t make the third one a good idea. You’ve got to be practical about these things; you have to grow up.

That’s what I kept saying to myself when I applied for a job at Brighton and Ellis. It’s a smart, ambitious law firm. It made sense for me to work here, even for a summer. My family didn’t have the kind of money I needed to go to graduate school at NYU. And us Charming sisters — we’ve always been the sort to fend for ourselves when it comes to these things.

I remember filling in the form online, writing the cover letter. I made the words sing and pop off the page, the creativity flowing through my fingers even as I typed what was supposed to be a boring business letter.

This isn’t what you’re supposed to do.

The voice in my mind was small, but it was there.

You always said you’d move to New York. Get your master’s degree. Teach. Write. No job back in Maryland. No boyfriend in DC. Nothing to tie you to this place or hold you back.

I think back on it even now, tapping my pen against the Leymen deposition. The words in this document don’t pop or sing. But they do pay my rent.

“Psst. Talisa. Come on. We need our drink.” Joanne winks at me.

Unfortunately, the ‘drink’ that Joanne mentioned is just a trip to the water fountain. Like most of your high-end law firms, Brighton and Ellis frowns on alcohol in the workplace. Still, these drinks with Joanne are the highlight of my day, which gives some idea of just how tedious the rest of it is.

“How are you settling in?” asks Joanne, a bubbly blonde a few years older than me.

I just shrug. I’ve been at Brighton and Ellis for six weeks and, quite to my surprise, it turns out I have a natural aptitude for this work. But the fact that Joanne still considers me to be settling in after six weeks on the job tells a story. It’s not just about being good at the job, you need to fit in on some deeper level. No matter how good I am – and I am – I’m still a square peg being forced into a round hole, and no matter how much better I get at the job, I don’t think that’s ever going to change.

“Have you met him yet?” Joanne presses me.

I roll my eyes, instantly knowing who she’s talking about. If there’s one element of working at Brighton and Ellis that irks me – though besides the expected level of boredom, it’s not such a bad job – then it’s my boss, Isaac Brighton. Not that I find him an unpleasant or offensive man to be around; on the contrary, I’ve never even met the man.

“You know what my Mom says?”

“I know some of the things she says,” replies Joanne. “I think you’ve asked me that question every day since you started working here, and she’s had something different to say every time.”

“She has a saying for every occasion,” I say, a little coldly.

“How convenient.”

“She says,” I go on, unabashed by Joanne’s genial mockery, “‘It doesn’t matter what job you do, from cleaner to CEO, as long as you do your best.’”

“She’s a lesson to us all,” says Joanne, with a sly smile.

“I can’t abide people who reach a certain level of success and then just sit back on their ass and let everyone else earn their ridiculous salary for them,” I explain. “How is it possible I’ve never met the man I work for? Because he never goes near his own office, that’s how. We’d have to move the office closer to the golf course to see him. And even then, he’d probably just pop in between holes. The man never does any work!”

Joanne shakes her head. “I’m not really sure about that, Talisa. I’ve worked here for a while now and I’ve always found him to be...”

“It’s entitlement.” I’m not really listening to Joanne.

Joanne again pulls a face and looks about to put me straight, but instead the words die on her tongue unsaid, as she stares at something behind me.

I turn around and immediately understand why Joanne stopped – it’s the Diet Coke Man.

Since my arrival in the office six weeks ago, the only thing I look forward to in the working day (besides drinks with Joanne) is the Diet Coke man wandering through to the vending machine, buying a drink, and wandering back. I don’t know where he comes from or where he goes back to, but watching him is the highlight of my day. I do know that this sounds little bit creepy and very hypocritical. But, if a man in the office was looking forward to watching me pass every day, leering at my backside, or indulging in fantasies about what he might like to do to me across the desk when no one was about, then I might be incensed. But this is different, because...

Well, I guess it’s not different at all. I have no excuse except that I find the man devastatingly sexy. My mind wanders when I see him. From the messy style of his hair to the piercing look in his eyes. Intelligent, mischievous. Maybe even naughty.

My sister Samone told me that this is just how jobs work. You develop a workplace crush — for distraction, or entertainment, or just something to do to pass the time. I guess Diet Coke Man is all three.

It’s not like my imagination has much to work with, anyway. Kaleb was the last man — the only man — I slept with. He was a boy, not a man. And he was my college boyfriend. Earnest and sweaty and more interested in slam poetry than my body. The few orgasms he gave me weren’t exactly memorable.

Diet Coke man is an actual man. His body is lean and cut and muscular all at once. He looks like he could toss me over his shoulder and throw me onto a bed. His bed. In his fabulous apartment. He looks rich. I haven’t worked in DC long, but I can tell when someone looks rich. And he looks it.

It’s weird.

Three weeks ago — before I started — if someone asked me to describe my ideal man, then I would not have described anything like the Diet Coke Man. I would have said I’d want to be with someone more like Kaleb. Tall and skinny and nerdy. Bookish. Someone who grew up in a middle class neighborhood and chose to go to Howard University even though he got a scholarship to NYU.

But Diet Coke Man. Rich and tall and white. And ripped.

I watch his ass as he inserts a quarter into the machine.

I’ve never felt a more instantaneous and visceral attraction to a man in my life. He’s probably a jackass. People that good-looking tend to be jerks in my experience. I made a deal with myself a while back that I would avoid all these rich DC types while I was working here. I’m holding out for the sensitive type.

Men like Diet Coke Man can simply live in my imagination.

As I’m staring now, the Diet Coke Man realizes he’s being watched and smiles at me and Joanne. It’s the confident smile of a man who knows how good he looks, and is okay with it. He heads off, letting us both watch him go.

I turn my attention back to Joanne, who is still ogling him.

“I’m glad it’s not just me undressing him with my eyes, but don’t you have a boyfriend?” I point out good-naturedly.

Joanne stares back at me, wide-eyed. “You do know who that was, right?”

“No. You know his name?” My libido leaps up like a badly trained dog. Getting a name could be a good next step. With any luck, the step after that would be a bed.

“Isaac,” Joanne says bluntly. “Isaac Brighton.”

My jaw hits the floor. “He was... he was standing there all the time?”

Joanne nods. “What do you know? Turns out you have seen him.”

* * *

Back in the office, I bury my head in my work and fervently wish that my laptop would swallow me up. Turns out the reason I haven’t seen much of my boss is not that he never goes near his office, it’s that he seldom leaves it. From what Joanne tells me, he is one of the most dedicated workers, and even more so since his divorce left him with little else in his life. Now, this paragon of employment has overheard me criticizing his work ethic. While I was standing chatting at the water fountain. I’m screwed.

Wonderful.

Perhaps Mr. Brighton hadn’t heard what I said about him? Or if he had, perhaps he would see the funny side of the situation. Failing that, was it possible that he would, in fact, admire my honesty? After all, I’d been concerned that my boss wasn’t working – that’s a valid concern for an employee and shows how dedicated I am to my work. Well... Maybe that last option isn’t all that likely, but the others are possible. Aren’t they?

This wild optimism holds out for about an hour until a voice jolts me from my work.

“Ladies and gentlemen!”

I look around nervously. Just as I’d feared, it’s my boss, Isaac Brighton, addressing the office.

“Before I withdraw to my office for a round of golf – I’m not sure how I’ll play around the furniture but I’ll find a way – it’s been brought to my attention by a zealous employee that I don’t do any work around here.” He pauses in his speech to look directly at me, and I contemplate how earthquakes never strike when you most want them to. “Now I don’t want anyone to think that I don’t take responsibility for this sort of thing. So, I am here to confess. To own up to how little work I do and accept the humiliation that you will rightly heap upon me, by comparing my own work rate with that of one of you guys. Now, let’s pick someone at random.” He gazes around the room before his eyes inevitably come to rest on me. “Miss Charming, isn’t it? One of our newer employees, but I’m sure that, given how little I do around here, your rate of work will still put mine to shame.”

“I... I...” I fight for words, for something clever to say, but there’s nothing there.

“So what have you done today, Miss Charming?” asks Mr. Brighton.

The next ten minutes is the longest of my life. I had thought that I was working pretty hard at a job which, though it’s new to me, I’m fairly good at. And for a moment I had even thought: Right, you want to play this game, let’s play – I’ll show you how much I do around here. There was a confidence in my voice when I listed what I’d been doing today, even a cockiness. Then Isaac Brighton revealed what he’d been doing, and all my confidence evaporated. No wonder I never saw the man in the outer office. If his workload is anything to go by, he must be permanently chained to his desk. How is it possible for a man to do that much? He really must have nothing else in his life.

“So, Miss Charming,” Mr. Brighton winds up, raising his eyebrows in question. “If I, what was it you said? Never do any work, where exactly does that leave you?”

And with that, the whole office laughs at me, but that isn’t the worst of it. The worst is what Brighton says next.

“Makes me wonder; what exactly would the office lose if you were to leave it?”

Sure, this isn’t my ideal job, but I can’t manage without it. Not having this job closes off all my immediate options. I won’t have money to live on, and there’s no way to afford graduate school. Both my dream and my practical real-world plan hang completely on this job. I can try to get another, but I can’t afford to be out of work for long. It seems unlikely that Isaac Brighton will be giving me a good reference, which will make getting a new job of any kind difficult. If I get fired, then I have to head back home to live with Mom. I love her, but that’s not something I want to be doing at this point in my life.

Brighton goes back into his office and for the rest of the day, I sit at my desk managing to get even less work done. I’m a bundle of nerves, waiting for the call to Mr. Brighton’s office and the inevitable firing that’s sure to follow.

The call never comes, and the end of the working day rolls around. As people start to pack up and head for home, my eyes are still glued to the door of Isaac Brighton’s office. I can’t leave things like this. I can’t go home with this uncertain future hanging over my head.

With nervous and reluctant steps, I make my way across the room and knock on my boss’ door.

“Come in!” the voice sounds tired but not necessarily irascible.

I take a deep breath and go in.

Isaac Brighton is seated on the far side of a large, dark wood desk, staring out of the window with a pensive expression on his face. He says nothing, leaving me to make the first move.

“Mr. Brighton, I wanted to apologize.” I think what Brighton did to me in the outer office had been unfair, but I’d been in the wrong to start with, and he hasn’t fired me for insubordination – yet – so an apology seems appropriate. “What I said was completely out of line. Not just the fact that I said it, but that I said it behind your back. If I had a problem with you, then I should have voiced it to you in private. There’s no excuse for what I...”

“Please.” Isaac Brighton holds up a hand, still not looking at me. “It’s fine. We’ve all done it; you were just unlucky enough to get caught. You’re right that you should have spoken to me privately, but by the same token I shouldn’t have called you out in front of the entire office. It was unprofessional. Let’s just say that neither of us was at our best today and leave it at that. Shall we?”

He turns in his chair, seeming to see me for the first time. I can swear that I see something in his eyes... Attraction? A woman can usually tell when a man is interested in her. Men think they’re subtle, but they very seldom are. It’s probably just my imagination. Or even hope. I can’t help noticing once more that he’s incredibly good-looking. Gorgeous, sparkling eyes. A hard-muscled and lean body. The kind that’s made for sinning, as they say in the stories.

“I’d like that very much, sir. And I’ll take the job more seriously in the future. It’s very important to me.”

Brighton nods. “Good. Now, if you don’t mind, it’s been a long day, and I still have a lot of work to do tonight.”

I’m grateful to get out of there. I always thought that as you rose through an organization, the job got easier as well as better paid, but one look at Isaac Brighton makes me glad to be on a lower rung of the career ladder, and in no hurry to climb it.

* * *