Daydreamer

by Brea Brown

  Great. At least it’ll keep me busy, though. I have to admit, my mind is starting to run away with me. I’ve imagined everything from his favorite color (red) to his favorite sexual position (um… some things are private!). I’ve decided I have too much time on my hands. I need to get a life. A real life. Despite the fact that real lives are overrated. Or maybe Dr. Marsh is right, and I need to get a fantasy life that doesn’t include Jude. But… I don’t want to.

  I find myself looking forward to my downtime so I can daydream about him. Or not even making it to my downtime, as witnessed by Lisa. Some of my dreams are ridiculous, featuring me sitting on his drafting table, fanning him and feeding him grapes. Others are more disturbingly realistic, including conversations that I have to remind myself never happened. But most fall somewhere in between, like the mental mini-porno in his office, complete with hokey dialogue and steamy sex act. Fantasy Jude is a great… kisser.

  I don’t even have to be consciously imagining these scenarios anymore. Most nights he’s in my dreams. The other day, I had a dream in my sleep that was so raunchy I couldn’t look him in the eye at the vending machine the next day. As it turned out, I abandoned my craving for a Kit Kat and hightailed it back to my desk before he was finished making his selection. And I was sweating when I finally made it there. When he walked past on the way to his office, I shuffled papers around on my desk so I’d look busy and unapproachable.

  Not that he ever approaches me anyway. Not when he has Leslie at his beck and call. He’s been working here for three months, and Leslie’s been in his office several times a day, every day. I’ve started eavesdropping on her reasons for going in there. They’re almost as entertaining as my own fantasies. Here are a few of my favorites:

  “Coffee’s fresh!”

  “Do you have a fire extinguisher in here?”

  “Wanda needs your t-shirt size. I told her you were probably a large—I’m a pretty good judge of these things—but she wanted me to ask you to make sure.”

  “Can I get your John Hancock on this letter?”

  “I need a tall guy to help me reach something in the supply closet. Do you mind?”

  And she ends just about everything she says to him with this annoying giggle: “Ah-huh-huh!” Like little girl hiccups. Once, involuntarily, I loudly mock-giggled along with her at the end of her sentence as she was leaving Jude’s office. She shot me a dirty look on her way past, but when I peeked through his window a few seconds later, I caught him grinning at me. He looked down as soon as he saw me glance over.

  I’m not going to lie; that made my day.

  Of course, I reverted to my awkward self a couple of hours later, when I called him “Babe” before hanging up with him on a routine phone call about reserving the videoconference room for a client meeting. Yeah. That happened. In my defense, I was distracted (about work, for once, not one of my daydreams), and I meant to say, “See you later. Bye.” But I somehow got tongue-tied and started to combine the words “later” and “bye,” so it would have come out, “See you bater,” which almost sounds like I’m calling him a shortened form of “masturbator,” so my brain short-circuited, and I ended up saying, “See you, babe.” And then I hung up right away before I could correct myself, because I was trying to meet a deadline on another job. It was a slip of the tongue of epic proportions. Despite being very busy, I sat there at my desk, blushing and staring at my phone for at least a minute before I recovered and, with shaking hands, went back to work. I made a point of not making eye contact with him for the rest of the day, too.

  Tonight, I do a double take when I get a glimpse of my computer clock at 6:30. “Shit!” I mutter, kicking it into high gear. I have thirty minutes to get my butt to FedEx for their latest drop-off. I hop from my chair and look over the partition that separates my desk from Lisa’s. She’s long gone. A quick sweep of the office tells me everyone else is, too. Except Jude.

  Oh, Lord. This is what king-sized fantasies are made of.

  But I don’t have time for fantasies.

  I do a quick spell- and format check of the document and hit print, practically running for the printer on my shoeless feet. “Oh, gosh, oh, gosh, oh, gosh!” I whisper as I run back to my desk to hit “print” again when I realize I forgot to print the first copy in color. When I get there the second time, red lights are flashing, indicating a jam. “Son of a White Sox fan!”

  With the precision and efficiency of someone who’s cleared about a thousand paper jams, I open all the little hidey-holes that paper loves to get caught in, reaching my hands in spaces and around hot metal parts, tossing the fan-crinkled paper over my shoulder.

  “You will print for me, you piece of steaming crap!” I say lovingly to the machine as I close all the doors and tap my foot impatiently while it resets my job and sends it through again. “Come on, baby. You can do it. I just need one copy. Just one. I’ll make the saps at Kinko’s make my duplicates. Just give me one copy.”

  The last page slides out, and I grab the stack victoriously. “Ha-ha!” I cheer, holding the document aloft as I rush back to my desk for my shoes and purse. On my way past Jude’s office, I inform him, “I’m leaving! You’re the last one here!”

  “Oh, blimey. Mind if I follow you out then? I lost my office key recently.” He grabs his jacket from the back of his chair and shrugs it on as he hurries to catch up to me at the door. “Hole in one of my trouser pockets, I’m afraid. Keep forgetting to ask Wanda for a new one. Key, that is. Actually”—he keeps talking when I don’t say anything—“I’m a bit afraid to ask her. She’s sort of… humorless… and… scary. Am I the only one who thinks that?”

  This is the most Real Jude has ever said to me. I wish I were less distracted so I could enjoy it more, but I’m dancing like a woman with a bladder-control problem as I hit the lights and lock the door.

  “Right. You’re in a rush,” he observes.

  “Yes,” I answer. I put the proposal between my teeth and hit the elevator “down” button before sliding my shoes on. “I have to get this to FedEx before seven.”

  He looks at the clock on his cell phone and gives a low whistle. “You’re cutting it a bit fine.”

  “I know,” I say shortly, rushing into the elevator when it arrives. I press the button for the ground floor; he presses the button for the parking garage.

  “Do you have a plastic sheath for that paper? It’s pissing it down out there,” says the guy with the lake-view office.

  My stomach drops. “No.” Shit. I didn’t even notice. But I would have known if I had been listening to the rising scream in my leg and hip that alerts me to dips in the barometric pressure.

  I shove the document inside my shirt. The FedEx is just about as close as my car, which I had to park in an uncovered lot thanks to running late this morning (fantasies in the shower are especially time-consuming). Either way, the proposal’s going to get drenched.

  “Ah… I can give you a lift.”

  My heart starts pounding. Partly because I just got a flash of the fantasy I was having in the shower this morning. Partly because I can’t imagine being in a car with him. Of all the things I’ve pictured us doing, riding together in a car isn’t one of them. And for some reason, that matters.

  “No! I mean… Oh. Well… I don’t know… You don’t have to.”

  He raises his eyebrow at my strange string of replies. “I know. But it’s no trouble. Really. My car’s in the underground car park.” He motions to my shirt. “Come on. That’s not going to do the trick. It’ll be rubbish by the time you get five feet up the frog and toad, and all your hard work is going to go down the pan.”

  “It’s only three blocks away.” I’m not sure if I’m trying to convince him that my shirt will keep the rain at bay or if I’m assuring him that I won’t be too much of a bother. I’m too focused on filtering out the parts of his sentence I don’t understand (which are many) to examine my motives.

  “I think I have enough petrol,” he jokes.


  “Okay. Thanks.”

  We bypass the ground floor and descend to the second level of the parking garage. In silence. I’m suddenly very aware that my hair looks like it hasn’t seen a brush in several hours (because it hasn’t). And I’m also noticing that Real Jude doesn’t smell like Fantasy Jude. It’s not a bad thing; just different than I imagined. Fantasy Jude smells like books and gin and tonic. Real Jude smells like cinnamon Altoids. And Tide.

  We glance at each other at the same time, smile tightly, and look away. Finally, the elevator doors open, and Jude leads the way to his car. When we stop next to it, I start laughing, which he immediately misinterprets.

  “Yeah. Sorry. It’s a bit of a pigsty,” he apologizes.

  “No!” I say, even though on closer inspection, it kind of is. As he throws fast food wrappers and bags into the backseat to clear the passenger seat of the compact navy blue import, I explain, “I have the exact same car.”

  “Stroll on!” he cries.

  “What?” Is he telling me to walk? “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it,” I stutter, thinking he’s taken offense to something I’ve said.

  “Come again?” he questions, then seems to realize I’m confused by what he said. “Oh! No. I just mean, that’s incredible!”

  Relieved, I elaborate, “I’m not kidding. Same model year, same color, same everything!” I pat the small spoiler on the trunk.

  He comes around the car. “Then you drive. You know where we’re going, and we’ll get there faster without your having to direct me.”

  I’m not entirely sure about driving his car, but I don’t have time to argue, so I answer, “Okay.” I hand him the proposal, which is warm from being up against my body. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

  Other than having to scoot the seat up considerably so that I can reach the pedals, it’s eerie how at home I feel in his car. It even smells like my car, thanks to the fast food wrappers scattered around.

  I shoot onto Lake Shore Drive, turning on the wipers and the headlights at the same time. Then I weave in and out of traffic, looking in the mirrors and over my shoulder as I drive as fast as legally possible to get to the nearest FedEx. We’re there in less than five minutes.

  “See? Much faster,” he says, smiling shakily. There’s sweat on his brow. “You’re a very… confident driver, Lisa.”

  While I wait anxiously in line inside the copy store, I fume. Fantasy Jude would never mistake me for someone else. Then I try to calm down by telling myself it could have been worse: he could have called me “Leslie.” Of course, he wouldn’t make that mistake, since he and Leslie are such bosom buddies. Gag.

  After ridding myself of the proposal, I return to the car, where Jude’s sitting behind the wheel. I settle into the passenger seat and tuck my company credit card into my purse.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I say stiffly, all earlier feelings of camaraderie gone, thanks to his gaff. I just want to get to my own little blue car and home, where I can spend some quality time with Fantasy Jude in a hot bath.

  As he backs out of the parking space he says, “I got your name wrong just then, didn’t I? You’re Libby, not Lisa.”

  I look out the window. “It’s no biggie. People do it all the time.” It’s true; I don’t know why I’m being so unforgiving about it. I don’t care when Gary does it, which is surprisingly often, given how long we’ve worked together. And every new person calls me “Lisa” at least once (usually more often) until they get to know us better and realize how very different we are.

  “It’s difficult to keep the assistants straight; your names all seem to start with the letter ‘L.’ Was that a requirement of the job?”

  “Yeah. I mean, no. Anyway, Zoe ruins your theory.”

  “Who’s Zoe?”

  “Short brown hair, glasses, little voice?”

  “Ahhh… Hmm,” he says, struggling to place her.

  “Well, maybe you haven’t met her yet.” In the three months you’ve worked here, I add silently.

  “Right. Well, I mostly work with Leslie.”

  I like how he pronounces the “s” in her name as if it’s a “z.” She hates that. I hope he says it like that every time he talks to her.

  Snottily, I say, “She’s usually the one who has the least amount of real work to do,” proud of myself for having the presence of mind to get in a dig, knowing she’d do the same in my position.

  He laughs. “I had noticed that. The rest of you will be beavering away at your desks, and she’ll be wandering around, announcing that she’s brewed a fresh pot of coffee or some other such nonsense.”

  I barely keep from cracking up at 1) his use of the word, “beavering,” and 2) his very true observation about Leslie.

  “You seem to keep pretty busy yourself,” I comment, hoping it doesn’t sound too much like I watch him all day.

  “Better than being bored, I suppose,” he replies. “They have me working on the design for the new wing at the art museum.”

  I point to let him know to get into the left lane so we’ll be in position to turn into the parking lot where my car is sitting. “Wow. That’s a big account,” I remark about his assignment. “No wonder you’re always at work.”

  He shrugs. “Well, I have nothing better to do, really. New in town and all.” Quickly, he adds, “That is, I play rugby with some blokes on Thursday nights, so it’s not like I’m a complete and utter loser, but… yeah, I guess I sort of am.” He smiles over at me. I fall into that dimple again. “Uh… we’re here,” he announces, jerking his head toward his car’s twin, which he’s parked beside.

  “Oh! Gosh! I was spaced out or something. Sorry.”

  I fumble with the door handle, then realize the door’s locked. He hits the button to unlock it, while I mumble and stumble over the most inelegant “thanks” and “goodbye” in the history of manners.

  He waits to make sure I’m safely in my car and that it starts before he pulls away, giving me a subtle salute. I rest my head on the steering wheel and wait for my heart to return to a normal rhythm before backing out and heading in the opposite direction for home.

  4

  Understandably, I couldn’t get Jude out of my head the rest of the long, rainy night. I went home to my cramped apartment and made a tasteless low-calorie microwave meal for myself, eating it in front of the TV, fending off my cat, Sandberg, until all that was left were the water chestnuts that neither one of us wanted. Then I watched an hour of a chick flick on cable before realizing I’d already seen it and hated it the first time.

  I kept wondering what Jude was doing. Judging by what he’d said to me in the car, probably something similar to me, I decided (minus the chick flick). Unless he was playing rugby. No, that’s on Thursdays, I reminded myself, distractedly worrying a rough edge on one of my fingernails.

  What’s up with that, anyway? Rugby? Really? I had him pegged for a tennis guy. Or polo. Or soccer, at the roughest. It’s not that he’s wimpy-looking, but he’s tall. And thin. I hear the word “rugby” and I think of stout, fireplug-shaped guys beating the crap out of each other on a muddy field. Jude sits (or stands) in an office all day. Rugby is… brutal. And dirty. I watched part of a game one Saturday when there was absolutely nothing else on TV, and I was shocked. It was like mud-wrestling… with a ball. Guys were bleeding! I turned it off after a guy took an elbow to the face, breaking his nose and sending a fountain of blood arcing onto the field. I made a note to look for bruising on Jude on Fridays.

  The car thing had me shaken, too. At first, it was a funny coincidence. And then the more I thought about it, the more sinister it seemed. Okay, maybe not sinister, but creepy at the very least. I mean, what are the chances? (If he’d had a Ryne Sandberg bobblehead doll suction-cupped to his dashboard, I would have really freaked.) Plus I’d totally pictured him driving something like a Mini Cooper or an Aston Martin. Well, maybe not something that fancy, but something, well, European. Not a Japanese puddle-jumper. Automatic, to boot. Fantasy
Jude likes to use the stick shift. So much more aggressive and manly. In a clean, non-bloody way.

  By the time I’d obsessed about every heretofore-known discrepancy between Real Jude and Fantasy Jude, the crappy movie was over, and Sandberg was trying to coax me over to the bed, rubbing against me and purring. It’s so sad when your cat is the only guy interested in getting you in the sack.

  Today. I’m grumpy. I tossed and turned last night, unable to get a good scene going between Fantasy Jude and me. Real Jude kept butting in, calling me Lisa and babbling about frogs and toads and pans. I kept getting the two Judes confused. And we can’t have that. I work with Real Jude. He needs to stay at work. In his little glass office.

  Just before I’m getting ready to leave with Lisa and Zoe for lunch, he walks past my cubicle and backtracks. He pokes his head around the partition. “Whatchya,” he says simply, smiling, then going on.

  “Hey!” Lisa answers to his back, widening her eyes at me.

  Zoe squeezes my arm. “What was that?”

  I blush but try to hide it by pretending to search for something in my purse. “Nothing. He gave me a ride to FedEx last night.”

  They both stare at me open-mouthed, so I explain, “It was raining. My car was in the overflow parking lot. I was carrying an important proposal that couldn’t get wet. We were leaving at the same time.” When they continue to gape, I roll my eyes. “Can we go to lunch already? I’m starving.”

  “And crabby,” Lisa mutters, catching up to me at the elevator.

  Zoe’s too nice to be the first one to say it, but she nods her agreement.

  “I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night, okay?” I try to defend myself and close the topic at the same time. But it only adds fuel to the quickly building inferno.

  Lisa laughs. “Oh! I see.”

  “Alone!” I insist. “I had insomnia. Probably something I ate.”