(5) When I crack, I shatter
Lies between coworkers
Another episode in my pseudo-ficitonalized life as a secretary. The details are true, though the plot is embellished. Of late, someone has been telling lies in my firm’s data and I am curious to know why, or who…
When I crack, I shatter.
His breathing is shallow, but for the errant snort. A fly in the ointment, it humanizes him. And keeps my regret in check. I had formed a clear idea of Elton over a dozen condescending encounters. Lack of imagination was his real sin. Yet here he now lays, sprawled in my bed.
I had expected him to leave. Instead his arms wrapped around me. However uncomfortable that made me, it lulled him right to sleep. With a boldness I can only summon in my own home, I freed myself from his curious embrace and set to the one thing that calms me: making tea.
The second cup has cooled. Still I watch him. Uncertain.
He overheard my confrontation with Leona. He found it endearing, and though that should have put me off, the unexpected warmth in his voice confused me. A sheepish smile. Nerves, even. I can explain how he wound up in my bed, but I cannot explain why. A human moment from the cartoon chauvinist I had created. I cracked. I shattered.
He was charming, smooth until he set his sights on a goal. A kiss. A drink. An invitation in. Fluster before each success. Averting eyes that danced in my porchlight.
And I do not trust it.
The worse part of myself assumes his interest is a lie and a gambit to derail my investigations. That requires a very special combination of ego and insecurity– which itself is another shade of ego. It is comforting, though.
But this passed out, clingy and pathetic youth is no corporate saboteur. My quarry is better than this.
There’s that ego again.
I stole his wallet. Propriety is a mighty enemy, and so the wallet sits closed on my table while I drain my Earl Grey.
He snorts. Rolls over. My time may be short.
Three credit cards, one corporate. A driver’s license, its photo current. And a photo of a child, running with open arms. Unorthodox. He is too young to be a father, but the bigger surprise is the sentimentality. A nephew, most likely. Sweet.
I have been hard on him. I wear many masks at work, a different face adapted for every audience. I try to be hard and only share false smiles. They’re more effective, and work is no place to expose myself. Why should I assume my coworkers are any different?
In truth I know none of them. There are three genuine items I can attach to Elton– the photograph of the child, a clingy post-coital embrace, and his errant snores. The rest is a person suit tailored to meet everyone’s expectations and judgments. Certainly, I have judged.
I tuck his wallet together.
I could enlist his help. Someone has been naughty in our datasheets. I’m not sure I’m ready for that level of intimacy, open and honest. Help is a four letter word. I would prefer another.
Tomorrow he will distract me. And I will have to deny every crack in my mask. If I crack, I will shatter.
And so I will lie.