He’s far too close to me.
He bent down so that he could prop his elbows on my desk, and leant into me, in full view of the office. I could hardly function. I couldn’t look him in the eye. I held my breath, I am not used to being that close to anyone apart from my boyfriend. My handsome, intelligent, young boyfriend. The lack of distance is suffocating.
So he wanted to see the paper, and I shuffled through a pile of reports, surprised to see that my hands weren’t shaking in betrayal of my agitated mind. I notice the platinum diamond ring on my index finger – not my ring finger – as I fumble through the pile, at the same time I see him notice it as well.
He moved away.
And then he comes up to me, says he wants me to come to a meeting, ‘would love’ me to come, but is looking at my cleavage and the slack look of lust droops his face. I feel wanton, like I am dressed inappropriately for the office, I hate his attention, and adjust my neckline in the bathroom afterwards, as soon as it is feasible for me to run there. When my breathing subsides, I realise that I am fine. My clothing is practically puritanical in the context of today; it’s his reaction to a younger woman, and the vulnerability and reaction that I cannot conceal, which is causing this.
We go to a meeting; I have been thinking about this all week as it is held late on a Friday afternoon, and I fantasise that he will hold me back afterwards. He will put a hand on my leg, and I will have him inside me. Cold, hard, meaningless sex. The meeting ends and I’m actually tired; I pack my things quickly, people are moving out of the room. He calls my name and draws me to the back of the room; most people have filtered out. I try to talk to him, but I have a headache: I tell him I must go.
I want him very badly. It’s the tired old story of a young woman working with an older, corporately senior man. He’s 20 years older than me. But nothing has happened. Yet.