Your Actual Mouth, the One on Your Face
It’s easy for me to imagine us together. My imagination has always been very good. You’re not helping matters by sitting near my desk, which only gives me more material to distort in my habitual way.
It’s possible that I’m just bored. I’m not given very much to do here. I try to look busy enough when you’re walking by, returning to your office, carrying your giant steel water bottle, so that you don’t think I’m lazy. But not too busy, should you ever find yourself bored.
I know you never will. You’re always doing something. On the phone, carrying papers and folders around, staring intently at your computer. It must give you eye strain. Doesn’t it? You don’t use any screen break apps or timers. I’d be able to tell if you did, I know your schedule pretty well. I can barely look at my screen for twenty minutes without wanting to just scream. Sometimes I sit up straight and study the logo on the bottom of my monitor to make it look like I’m working.
I have to admit that I’m a little worried about your health. You slouch a lot. Plus the screens. I can tell you’re older, older than me at least, so you should probably pay more attention to your posture and your eyesight.
Why do I do this? It’s possible that I’m just lonely. I show up in the morning at 9:05 or 9:07 and check the weather even though I was outside a second ago. If it’s nice out, I get to pity myself that I’m stuck in the office on such a beautiful day, and if it’s shitty, I get to pity myself that I live in such a dull and dreary world. Then I glance over into your office (you won’t arrive until 10 or so) and check for anything new on your desk. You have no pictures, not even of a pet. So I can’t help but wonder if you’re lonely, too. You arrive around 10 like you’re lonely, tag hanging out the top of your collar, and you don’t check your phone or anything, you have no one to inform that you’ve arrived safely at your destination.
But maybe that’s just a bad habit of mine. I used to tell my ex whenever I left or arrived anywhere, because I imagined that if I didn’t, it would take him a while to realize if I had been murdered. When we broke up I started texting one of my friends, and one day she said, “You really don’t have to tell me every time you get to work lol.” I was mortified and haven’t texted her since.
Sometimes I get worried when you leave for the day. I wonder if it’s the last time I’ll ever see you, and then wonder how long it would take for news of an accident to reach me. A stranger who sits near you in the office.
For the record, I definitely wouldn’t mind if you texted me, if you just needed someone to know you were safe.
I’ve Googled your name before. Incognito mode. I know where you went to college and how long you’ve worked here and your birthday. That’s what I was really looking for — your birthday, so I could find out your sign. I’m a Virgo, and you’re a Capricorn, so guess what? We’re compatible. I get excited about that, but it’s the excitement that suddenly makes me ashamed of what I know. I realize that in any future conversation where we might exchange knowledge of our signs, I will have to pretend I don’t already know yours, or else reveal the depth of my snooping. The internet is bullshit.
And Google still won’t tell me if you’re seeing someone. You don’t wear a wedding ring, but I know that doesn’t mean much. I heard you talking with your colleague, the woman who sits to the left of me. You said you weren’t doing anything over the weekend. You always say that. A lot of the time, people in relationships say “we” instead of “I.” You say “I.” I used to say “we,” but my ex usually said “I,” so I guess I should have known.
Sometimes, when I decide I think about you too much, I imagine you’re a terrible boyfriend to some poor woman out there. But then I end up imagining you cheating on her with me, so it doesn’t really work.
You always eat lunch in your office, with the door open, which I take as an invitation for me to watch you. Recently, you got a call and must have realized you were late for something. You threw down your sandwich and scrambled to gather a pen and a notepad. You grabbed your water bottle and shook it, finding, apparently, that it was empty. You got up with no grace at all and left with the water bottle. As you went by I saw there was mayo or something on your face.
I guess I was worried about you. You were in such a rush, and you clearly had no idea about the mayo. Also, my horoscope had told me that I should be willing to take risks that day. Approaching you in the kitchen, you were hunched in front of our fancy new water machine, pressing the button that refilled the bottle. Hunching — poor you, I thought, with your terrible posture.
“Excuse me,” I said.
You turned toward me, no sign of recognition. Had you ever noticed me before, I wondered?
“Sorry, um — there’s stuff on your mouth.”
You looked down at the steel mouth of the bottle under the steady stream of water.
“No,” I said, impossible to suppress a smile, you were so funny in your misunderstanding. “Your actual mouth. The one on your face.”
It came out inappropriately casual, I knew right away. I talk to you so much in my head that talking to you in real life seemed perfectly natural, but from your perspective, I was just a stranger. I was horrified.
But then something amazing happened. You laughed.
“Thank you,” you said. Swiped across your mouth with the side of your hand. “That would have been embarrassing.”
God, the tension was so heavy. It was so real at that moment, the sound of water hitting water — you were still filling up the bottle; the damn thing was gigantic, I thought it would never be full — me looking at you and you looking at me for once. Finally I mumbled “no problem” and fled back to my desk. The whole rest of the day I was dazed. Part of me had never been sure if I wanted you for real. Maybe I was just bored, maybe I was just lonely.
But I did. I do.
The whole night was gone in a rush of plans and aspirations: Should I actually pursue knowing you? Was it possible to get what I wanted? What, precisely, did I want? No conclusions were made but plenty of hypotheticals were drawn out for consideration. And I considered them for a long time.
So what do I make of the latest development?
I always listen when you’re talking to the woman on my left. Yesterday, you said to her that this was your last week.
Your last week.
I know the betrayal I feel is misplaced. But how long, my Capricorn, have you been planning this? Since before our meeting in the kitchen? I can’t help but feel crushed when I think of myself next Monday, just a few days away, when I look into your office after checking the weather and none of your things, new or old, will be there.
Maybe I’ll just quit.
But that fantasy doesn’t occupy me like you did. Instead I imagine that you’re leaving because of me. All you had to do was speak to me — once — and you couldn’t take it, you had to go. For your own self-preservation. That’s the only thing that makes me feel better.
