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I move so fast; I don’t even notice her. Not until I’ve already run smack dab into her, knocking her keys and drink container from her hand.
Chapter Four
Melissa
Refilling my tea in the coffee bar at the entrance to the executive’s floor, I think over the conversation I had with Dennis this morning. I also make up my mind to not think about Dennis anymore today. My mind has been preoccupied with him, and what his attitude might be trying to tell me about his personal life, the whole entire walk here.
But that all comes to an end when a frantic man comes barreling out of the elevator on my floor, clutching a file folder to his chest. Tall and broad-chested, he looks out of place here, as if maybe he should be playing the role of the Incredible Hulk rather than working behind a desk for a technology company.
His face is sweaty and flushed, but his deep-brown eyes are determined. I see him before he sees me, but what happens next is unavoidable. He slams right into me, and it’s only then, only after my drink has flown out of my hand along with my car keys, that he notices me there.
His eyes go wide in shock and horror, but it’s too late. Everything in both of our hands has already gone flying. My drink cup lands next to one of the tables.
Some of my tea splashes onto the carpet, but thankfully it’s not the whole thing. Somehow, the cover has slammed down on the drink-hole on it before any more damage is done. My keys fly far. They end up on my desk, but not before knocking back my portrait of Dennis.
The man’s papers and file folder, those are the biggest “casualty” of this whole collision. They go everywhere, like an explosion. Papers shift open into the air and flutter down all around us, like big-business confetti at a wedding nobody asked for.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, out of breath. “Fuck. Sorry,” he says again.
Each time he gets more and more out of breath. I actually see sweat beading on his forehead and on his face. His cheeks are beet red. I assume that’s out of embarrassment rather than him feeling cold, since he’s also sweating.
But surprisingly, he has this cuteness about him. Like a big, overstuffed teddy bear or something of that sort. His face and eyes are boyish. He quickly hustles to pick up my drink container. He doesn’t bother to get my keys, but he does stop and stare at the picture on my desk.
What he thinks when he sees it, I don’t know, and I don’t care to know. Whatever it is, it’s something complex enough to keep him there a moment. Either that or catching his breath.
I busy myself with picking up his papers, as well as the folder they go in. I move quickly, thankful that there aren’t dozens of these, just a good handful. I pick one of the last few pieces of paper up, unable to keep from looking at it.
It’s a resume. Another paper I pick up is a letter of recommendation. There are a few different letters of recommendation, it looks like, and from a variety of professional relationships — mostly to do with the law. One looks like it’s from a professor, yet another looks like it’s from a boss at an internship or something of that sort.
“Stop looking at his personal papers,” I grumble to myself, hurrying to pick up the rest of the fallen papers and put them in the folder. “It’s none of your business what he does.”
As I turn around, this thought is in my head, but it quickly changes. When I see how totally and completely disheveled the man named Tommy is (I got this from looking at his resume), I know I can’t let him go to an interview looking like that. Not when he looks like a half-drowned rat dressed at its own funeral.
I go up to him, handing him his folder. At the same time, he hands me my drink container, murmuring yet again, “I’m sorry,” but this time he adds something to it.
He says, “I should’ve looked where I was going.”
I take my drink container and grab his other hand. Without stopping to ask him whether he wants me to do this or not, I drag him with me to one of the private bathrooms.
“Come on, Tommy. If you’re going for an interview, I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you go in there looking like that.”
I say this as I take him with me, but he’s not even really putting up a fight — and he could if he wanted to. He’s nearly twice my size.
Amazingly, he follows dutifully along, as if he is more than willing to have me give him an impromptu makeover. And he should be. I’m always impeccably dressed. Even today, even with running short on time, I’m dressed in my best. In a flawless blouse, fancy heels, and fancier slacks.
