C. Shelton
Temp for Hire
October 9, 2003
He loves me. He loves me not. It doesn’t matter, he has a girlfriend. He loves her? She loves him not? Possible, but not promising.
He brings me a rose for no other reason than I seem sad today. It is orange. In the language of roses where red means love and yellow means friendship, orange must mean ambivalence.
He does not touch me - except for one hug offered in consolation. A sympathy squeeze. But he lifted me off my feet and held tight longer than a platonic embrace would warrant.
He stands close, but not too. If we walk side by side he is careful not to let our shoulders bump. He crosses his arms or shoves his hands in his pockets so as not to let them swing into mine by accident.
He sends me email at work. I am eager to read it. Afraid my boss will see it. Delete it after forwarding it to my home computer for later guilty pleasure. He twists my words into sexual innuendo. I am a burrito he will eat for dinner. I am his “ami joli.” Does his girlfriend know he has a beautiful burrito friend at work? I doubt it.
He leaves me voice mail - just to say hi. I want him to miss me. I try not to be the one to make first contact but my will crumples. I want his head to be as haunted as mine with thoughts of a meeting of no words. Only kisses and fingertips and nuzzles.
He brings me a plant. It is large and unruly. Does it mean, here is my gift of friendship - it will be awkward and difficult. It will make you smile secretly and bring oxygen to your closed-in life.
Perhaps I am reading-in too much.
Maybe he merely wants a constant reminder of himself in my office, hanging over my shoulder. A life I have to take care of and nurture. A burden, perhaps. What would it mean if I let the plant die?
He takes me out to lunch. I go, although I think, what would your girlfriend say about this? He would say, we are friends. We can have lunch. Friends have lunch.
But I cannot look him in the eye as I eat my burrito. I cannot say what is on my mind; that he is four inches too far away from my body, and if he would simply scoot over, we wouldn’t need to think of something safe to say.
He offers me a drink from his soda bottle but I choose to pour it into a separate cup. Then he helps himself to the end of my water glass, his lips resting on the rim where mine just were. I think this is probably the closest we’ll ever come to a kiss.
He asks me to take care of his cats while he is on vacation with his girlfriend. He asks me to pick him up at the airport when he returns but she doesn’t. She will be out-of-country for a whole year. I can imagine him lining up his interim lover. Me. The temp in the building next door. How convenient. When she comes back from her big adventure, he’ll be waiting. I’ll be let go.
I return to my small rented room and my cat and resolve not to answer his emails or accept any more presents or invitations from him. And there, sitting on my table, is the orange rose.
Temp
for Hire
