Chapter Eight - Conrad
I hadn’t planned on kissing her, despite my calculations.. Not yet, at least. I had figured that we would eventually get there, but it took me by surprise. That’s not to say that I didn’t mean what I said to her. As I try to organize my thoughts for the book, they race away from me as soon as I shine a light on them. They say that sunlight is the best disinfectant, but tell that to a fleeing cockroach.
It surprised me more when she kissed me, although it wasn't’ totally out of keeping with her type. After that, just watching her dab her mouth with the napkin made me want to lay her down on the table. I think she knew it, too, because that’s when she started asking questions. “This is how I would prepare for a debate,” she kept saying. “So you owe me the background material.”
“Conrad, what makes you want to write a book about love?”
“Because I don’t understand it as well as I would like to. I’m not sure anyone does.”
“Conrad, how do you define love?”
“I don’t. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt it. I just know what people are like.”
“Conrad, how is love, at least, different than lust?”
“Lust is something I know all about. But I’ve also had enough of it to know that it’s hollow on its own. After a while, of course.” She smiled back at me and bit her lip again. I was about to make an indecent proposal but she cut me off.
“We should probably be getting back. I think Zima is going to be worried about you.” Not so fast. She can ask the questions, she can ambush me with a kiss, but she’s not going to set my itinerary. “Not yet,” I say. “There are a couple of other things I need to show you. For research, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Did you take any notes?”
She looks down at her clipboard. “Want to see? I’m going to run to the ladies’ room real quick. Take a look if you want.” She holds the clipboard up, covering her face for a moment. After she excuses herself I grab for it.
The page is blank except for the faint red outline of her lips. She must have done that right now. Jesus, my heart is pounding. At this rate, we’re never going to write a damned word. Hell, at this rate, we’re not even going to make it back to the car. I start daydreaming about all of the things I want to do to her. I’m wondering about the noises she would make. Eventually, I start wondering where the hell she is. I check my watch. She’s been gone for 10 minutes. When I go upstairs, Arturo says she left. He’s laughing. “She looked like she knew a secret,” he says.
Game on. I go outside, thinking she might be waiting on the curb. She’s not. My driver’s there, but she’s obviously gone. Then my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Maya. “I went back to the office. Had an idea for your project. No time to waste.” That was it. Now she wants to see what I would do. Will I rush back to the building to see her? Will I yell at her? Fire her? Honestly, I consider doing all three, in various orders. But I’m having fun. She shows all of the signs of unpredictability and impulsivity, but there’s no telling what she will do next, which means there is no telling what I will do next. And it’s been a long time since I’ve felt that way.
“Where to, sir?” says Mike.
“Back to work.” On the drive, I’m having fantasies of Maya being in my office. In this nice little daydream, I march in, grab her hips, lift her onto my desk, and demand that she explain herself to me. I’m instantly hard. By the time I get to the building I’ve calmed down a little, but that changes when I go inside and Zima reports that Maya had just left. “She said to tell you she’ll be working from a remote location today,” she says. “Conrad?” she says in the background while I start to laugh. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
I turn. Zima is walking towards me, wanting to talk, but I don’t have time for her concerns right now. “No, I say. Just don’t forward any calls to me for a couple of hours.”
When I’m at my desk I open up a spreadsheet and start making a list. After a few minutes, I text Maya. “I’m willing to let you work from home today,” I say, “But I need you here tonight. Non-negotiable. Come at 9.” It takes her a while to respond. When she does, there’s nothing defiant about it. “I’ll be there,” she says. “What should I bring?”
“Bring a change of clothes,” I type. I look at the words, not sure if I mean them. “It might be a long night,” I add. There. She won’t know what to make of that. I’m not even sure that I know what to make of it.
But I’ll figure it out by the time she gets here.