Daydreamer

by Brea Brown

  “Mm-hm…”

  Zoe interjects softly, “That was a really nice smile he gave you. And he made a point to back up so he could give it to you.”

  Suddenly paranoid that someone’s going to hear them, I look around us. “Will you two shut up? If I had known it was going to be so much trouble, I would have just walked in the rain.”

  The elevator arrives. We step in, although I’m tempted to send them without me.

  “‘Trouble’?” Lisa questions, pushing the button. “What trouble? We’re just teasing you a little bit. That’s nothing unusual. Unless you’re referring to something else that happened when Jude gave you a ride…” She holds her hands in front of her like a frame. “I’m seeing steamed-up car windows, body parts pressed up against glass…”

  “So!” I interrupt loudly. “Where are we going for lunch? Did we ever decide?” I figure the only way we’re going to get off this subject is if I drag us away from it. “I’m in the mood for sushi. Is it weird to want sushi for lunch?”

  “It’s not a crime to be attracted to someone,” Lisa says.

  “Especially when he looks like that,” Zoe agrees. “He’s not really my type, but I have unconventional taste in men.”

  That’s an understatement. The last guy she dated had so many tats and piercings, it was hard to tell what features God had originally blessed him with. And I know she’s not meeting these guys at the public library on Friday nights, so it makes me wonder what our quiet little Zoe is like when she’s off the clock.

  The elevator doors open on the lobby, but I hang back while they step off. “You guys go ahead,” I say, hitting the button to take me back up to the office.

  “What?”

  “Oh, come on! Don’t be a baby,” Lisa says. “We’ll stop bugging you.”

  But the doors are already closing. I wave at their incredulous expressions, then I’m blessedly alone again. Sighing, I lean against the wall. I don’t really want to sit at my desk through lunch, eating a candy bar from the vending machine, but I don’t want to go somewhere outside the building and eat alone, either. Maybe I’ll find the closest hair salon and get a haircut. I’ve been thinking about it for a while. My straight hair is halfway down my back when I wear it down, which isn’t very often, because it’s so hot and heavy. It’s going to be unbearable when the summer temperatures really kick in.

  “I love your hair. It’s so beautiful, the way it catches the light.” He leans close and breathes in. “And it smells so good.”

  “Thanks.” My freshly cut, silky black hair looks like something in a shampoo commercial. “Most guys prefer long hair.”

  “You make any length look fabulous.” He fingers the ends, brushing his knuckle against my ear.

  “Well, I thought it was time for a change.”

  With his lips almost touching mine, he says, “Don’t change too much, though. I like you just the way you are.”

  Real Jude materializes in front of me. I startle and squawk, drowning out and replacing the usual elevator ding and making him look up from the floor, where his attention had been while he waited.

  “Libby!” His smile turns to confusion as he gets into the elevator with me and presses the button to go down. “I thought you had already gone with Lisa and… blimey, how embarrassing. I can’t remember her name.”

  I’m so flummoxed, I can’t move fast enough to get off the elevator. The doors close and we descend, both facing the front. “Zoe,” I rasp, then clear my throat. “That was Zoe.”

  “Oh! You mentioned her yesterday, and I couldn’t picture her. So that’s her.”

  Tamping down my irrational irritation at his inability to remember her, I say crossly, “Yes. That’s her. Hasn’t she done any work for you in all the months you’ve been here?”

  He either doesn’t pick up on my pique, or it doesn’t bother him. “No. I s’pose not.” Then he laughs. “I’ve only been here three months, though. And I hardly ever leave my office.”

  “Except for today.” I glance at him from the corner of my eye.

  “Except for today,” he repeats, grinning, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “I decided to get away for an hour.” He says it like it’s the most rebellious thing he’s ever done. Turning his body toward me, he asks, “Would you like to join me?”

  Instead of outright rejecting him, which is my first inclination, I hedge, “Where are you going?”

  He shrugs, still grinning. “Dunno. I have no idea what’s even close. I thought I might take a walk. It’s lovely out today.”

  We arrive in the lobby before I can come up with a nice way of saying, “no,” so I step off the elevator and have an out-of-body experience as I watch myself walk with him to and out the revolving door, onto the sidewalk.

  “Where to?” he asks expectantly, as if I’m the instigator of this outing.

  “Oh. I don’t know. Sushi?” I can hardly believe I’m hearing myself. I was supposed to say, “I don’t know… I think I’m just going to get my hair cut.” That was the plan, wasn’t it, before he interrupted Fantasy Jude and me?

  He nods decisively. “Sushi.” Then he stands there, waiting for me to lead the way.

  And I do. Now it’d look really weird for me to back out, so I’m stuck.

  My internal hermit is chewing me out, pointing out how unbearable Lisa and Zoe are going to be if they find out about this, when he says, “So, what about Lisa and… Zoe? Ha! I think I’ve got it!”

  Suddenly terrified that he’s reading my mind, I falter. “W-What? What about them?”

  “Her name! I think I’ve got it now.” He taps his temple. “Sorry. Go ahead.”

  I shake my head at him, trying to figure out if it’s me or him making this conversation almost impossible. I can’t help but snap, “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  His smile fades. “Right. You left the office with Zoe and Lisa, but then you came back up in the lift. And then rode it down again.” The smile returns. “Do you like to spend your lunch hour riding the lift?”

  Completely unconvincingly, I lie, “Oh, that. I… uh… er, thought I forgot my… wallet! But then I found it in my purse while I was riding the elevator up.”

  Turning toward me but keeping in stride with me, he puts his hands in his pockets and squints in the sun. “Do you want to try to catch up to them?”

  His question suddenly makes me wonder if they’ll be at the sushi place we’re heading for. My stomach clenches. “Uh, no! That’s okay. I’m sure they’re way ahead of us, already eating by now.” As casually as possible, I turn a block before the street we’d take to get to our original destination and say, “You know, I’m actually more in the mood for a burger. Is that okay?”

  “I’m easy,” he replies. “Whatever. As long as it’s not a garden burger. That just sounds hideously unappetizing, don’t you think?”

  “Sure. I guess.” I’ve never spoken to another English-speaking person and had more trouble understanding him. I feel like I’m constantly three seconds behind. Like there’s some kind of audio lag going on in real life. It’s completely disconcerting and disorienting.

  Because of that, other than a recommendation on what he should order when we get to the tiny burger joint, we don’t say anything until we’re seated with our food. And we only start talking again because he insists on it. My main objective is to make it though this meal without being discovered.

  “So… are you originally from Chicago?” he asks after swallowing his first bite. He takes a drink and waits for my answer.

  “Yes,” I say simply.

  He nods, waiting for more, but when I don’t volunteer anything, he soldiers on. “You must like it well enough, then, to stay here after… what was it? University? Secretarial school?”

  I can tell from the way his eyes are twinkling that he’s kidding about secretarial school, but I still bristle a little. “For your information, I went to Loyola,” I tell him snobbishly, hating myself for being such an elitist b
itch. But for some reason, it’s important for me to establish that I’m more than someone who can type and make coffee.

  And I don’t want to be Real Jude’s friend, anyway. That would seriously hinder my relationship with Fantasy Jude, who I really like.

  Eyebrows raised, he swallows another bite, then says. “Wow. What did you read?”

  His question takes me aback. Does he want me to list everything I read in college? “Uh… textbooks?”

  He wrinkles his brow, then laughs. “Oh! No. Sorry. I meant what was your area of study?”

  Why didn’t he just say that, then? “I majored in anthropology and sociology,” I reply, unexpectedly annoyed by his impressed expression and his obvious reappraisal of me and my intelligence based on my answer. If I’m just a secretary, I must be dumb; but someone with a degree… now that’s impressive? I get so sick of being stereotyped, especially by these high-and-mighty, nerdy architects I work with (not for).

  He repeats, “Wow. And how’d you get into, um, administrative work, then?”

  “It’s a long story,” I dodge and feint. “What about you? You went to Oxford?”

  Holding his napkin up to his mouth, he closes his eyes and bounces in his chair, obviously laughing and trying not to spit out his food or choke. When he recovers, he answers, “Uh, no. Not even close. Not everyone from England goes to Oxford, you know.”

  “I know!” I say defensively. “I just figured…” I blush as I realize my blunder. “I must have you confused with… someone else. Anyway, sorry.” I take a deep breath to compose myself, then ask neutrally, “Where’d you go?”

  “University of Edinburgh. In Scotland. I read Architecture and Design.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Well, maybe not. Maybe I studied to be a… secretary.”

  “Very funny,” I say flatly.

  He cocks his head. “Sorry. I’m getting the idea that your job is a sore topic.”

  I don’t want him getting any ideas about me, so I force myself to smile. “Not at all.” I wave my hand in front of myself and say, “Don’t mind me. I’m taking a bad day out on you.”

  He graciously accepts my half-apology, which makes me feel even worse. If he would just be a jerk and tell me to go screw myself, it would be a lot easier.

  To keep the conversation away from me and my background, I go back to asking him about himself. “Anyway, what brings you to the Windy City?”

  He looks blankly at me; then understanding lightens his features. “Oh. Yes. Chicago’s the Windy City, isn’t that right?” I nod, amazed that someone could not know that like they know that the sky is blue.

  He plays with his straw, tying it in a knot. “A job.”

  “Yeah, but why’d you choose to apply for a job in Chicago, of all places?”

  “You like it here, right?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know any better. Unfortunately.” I sit back and study his reaction to my probing. “I’m just curious why Chicago got your attention, as opposed to New York or L.A. or, I don’t know, St. Louis. Anywhere.”

  He runs a hand through his hair and makes a noise with his lips that I interpret as being at a loss for words. Finally, he says, “I applied in lots of cities. Not necessarily the ones you mentioned, but others in addition to Chicago. They all seemed pretty much the same to me. I’m not terribly familiar with U.S. geography. This firm gave me a good offer; I took it.”

  Being the private, guarded person I am, I know a half-truth when I hear it. I also know how annoying it is when someone won’t take a hint and keeps pressing you for an answer you’re not willing to give. I don’t want to find out too much about Real Jude, anyway. The less I know, the less chance I have of getting confused and repeating my earlier stunt of treating fantasy like fact.

  “Sounds perfectly reasonable.” I dunk a French fry in ketchup and eat it like I don’t have a care in the world, including knowing anything personal about him.

  He smiles uncertainly at me. I’m content to eat the rest of my meal in silence, but he’s squirming in his seat like a naked hairy man in a Velcro chair.

  Eventually, he sighs and blurts, “That’s really only half the story. About why I came to Chicago.”

  I raise my eyebrows in the strongest expression of interest I can muster. In reality, I’m silently begging him to leave it alone.

  “If you’re a criminal, exiled from your home country, I don’t want to know.”.

  He chuckles nervously, and I’m worried for a minute that I might have guessed correctly. But then he says, “Close. Divorced and exiled. However unofficial and voluntary the exile may be.”

  This is a most distasteful revelation. The Jude I’ve come to know and—in some twisted way—love has never loved another woman but me. He came to me an inexplicably talented virgin lover. And he certainly doesn’t have any baggage as messy as an ex-wife!

  “You don’t have an ex-wife!” I state confidently, speaking more to my fantasy than to him.

  He laughs, obviously thinking I’m kidding, giving him my version of “stroll on.”

  “You sounded so English when you said that just now. Reminded me a bit of home.” Rubbing his eyebrow, he says, “I wish I could deny it. But alas.”

  He looks pretty chagrined by the fact, but I have no idea what to say to him. All the next logical responses would lead to further disclosures that I’m not interested in hearing. Actually, I am interested, but I know I shouldn’t be—can’t be—so, it’s best for me to just drop it.

  But how do I go on with this lunch? “Oh, that’s nice. Ready to head back to the office? Unfortunately, I can’t be seen with you, so you leave now, and I’ll be about five minutes behind you”? Somehow I don’t think that’s a socially acceptable response.

  “Bummer,” I say instead, panicking as the silence drags on. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not, to be quite honest.” At my shocked expression, he explains, “I’m sorry it didn’t work out, but I’m glad to be rid of her.”

  “Okay!”

  “That came off wrong,” he quickly states. Clearly embarrassed, he laughs at himself. “What I meant…”

  “You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” I interrupt him, standing up and grabbing my purse from the floor. “It’s none of my business.”

  He rises, too, coming around the table and following me through the tables crowded into the tiny space. When we emerge onto the sidewalk, he says, “Bloody hell, now you think I’m a right git.”

  Keeping my eyes straight ahead, I reply, “Whatever that is. I don’t have an opinion of you one way or another.” For some reason, I’m really mad at him. I wish I knew why. I only know that I am, and that it causes me to spew, “I’m just an administrative assistant where you work. And you’re just another one of the guys who orders me around and looks at my breasts when he thinks I don’t notice.”

  “Come again?” he sputters next to me. “I’ve never… that is, I resent that accusation! Every last word of it!” His tone softens, and he mumbles, “At the risk of sounding completely pathetic, I thought… perhaps… that you and I were becoming friends.” When I say nothing but keep walking, he continues, “And it was a bit of a relief, actually. I haven’t made many friends since moving here.”

  I will not feel sorry for him. I’ll be strong. He can be friends with someone else. Leslie will be the first volunteer, as long as the job comes with benefits.

  “I don’t really do the whole friend thing,” I state as matter-of-factly as possible.

  “Bollocks,” he says. I assume he’s calling me a liar, though I’m not sure, until he challenges, “What about Lisa and Zoe?”

  Coolly, I reply, “The three of us don’t hang out together outside of work. Lisa has a husband and step-daughter who keep her busy. And Zoe… we don’t seem to have the same interests. We’re just co-workers who don’t hate each other.”

  He slows down, and I find myself adjusting to match his pace, although I can’t explain why. I mostly want to get bac
k to work, where I don’t have to talk to him anymore.

  After a while, he says, “Well, at least you have that.”

  “What about your rugby team?” I ask, kicking myself for letting on that I retained anything from our contact last night.

  He snorts. “Truth be told, most of them are wankers, a bunch of blokes with something to prove, trying to be hard cases. I like the sport, but I haven’t really clicked with any of the blokes I play with.” He sighs. “And I hate to sound like a whinger, but I don’t really fit in with any of the blokes at work, either. A few of them seem downright adversarial, in fact. As if they’re trying to set me up for failure.”

  I wish I could reassure him otherwise, but I can totally see where that might be the case. A gaggle of xenophobic morons, most of them, elbowing their way to the top, resentful of the new guy who lands the big project. Never mind that Jude doesn’t have a life and works about five times as hard and double the hours they do.

  “You’ll meet people,” I say lamely. “Outside of work. Who wants to talk shop all the time, anyway? That’s all those guys know how to do.” I just can’t be mean to this guy, no matter how much I realize it would make my life a lot less complicated.

  Another huge sigh escapes him. “Right.” Hesitantly, he adds, “You’re right about them, though.”

  I try to remember what I’ve said. “About them talking shop?”

  He rolls his hand in a circle. “Yeah, that. But the other thing, too.”

  I have no choice but to look at him to try to figure out what he’s getting at.

  Ducking his head, he laughs shyly. “They do talk about… you know.” He draws a set of breasts on himself in the air in front of him. A big set.

  “Oh,” I say, trying to sound like I don’t care. “Of course they do.” Even though I want to, I don’t force him to admit or deny that he’s right there with them when they do. Instead, I skirt danger by saying, “Well, we talk about them too. Only”—I lift my chin defiantly—“it’s the inverse. We speculate just how little their peckers are.”

  He cracks up, putting his hand on my shoulder to steady himself as he staggers through his laughter. The touch is casual, but it makes me tingle in some serious places. I smile in spite of myself.