One Kiss: An Office Romance

It seems like I still have mountains of paperwork to do, but I can barely focus. My brain is all just numbers and descriptions like “great views!” and “room to expand!” falling all over each other nonsensically.

I feel like I am making no headway at all. No matter what I do, the stack of folders on my desk doesn’t seem to be getting any shorter. Should I be grateful for all the work? Probably. But running at breakneck speed in a hamster wheel means I am getting nowhere.

“Hey, do you have the file on… Oh, here it is,” Maxwell announces, walking into my office.

I would at least throw him a dirty look, but he looks at least half as tired as I feel. His thick, wavy hair has a bit of a ridge in it where I can tell he’s been leaning on his hand, probably stuck in the same position in his desk for hours at a time just like me.

“Take them all,” I joke halfheartedly as he picks a folder up off the stack.

But he just takes the Old Town project folder and tucks it under his arm, smiling sympathetically. Just before he leaves my office, he turns around abruptly.

“You know, I’m starving,” he shrugs. “It’s almost seven. Did you eat?”

I look up at him, confused. He swallows, almost a nervous gesture. I’m sure it’s just an innocent thing, but I can’t help but be suspicious.

Okay, dial it back, I caution myself. We are not at war. He is just my boss.

“Seven o’clock already?” I sigh, forcing myself to strip all traces of sarcasm from my tone.

He smiles, sensing a break in my attitude.

“Let’s get out of here,” he suggests. “Something casual. Something quick. We both deserve a break.”

I don’t say yes, but I don’t say no either and I guess that’s enough of a confirmation for him. He leaves and comes back shortly afterward, and I stand and slip my shoes back on, nervously smoothing my trousers over my hips.

I can be nice, I tell myself. I can be friendly, even if he is an ass. This doesn’t have to be awkward. It’s not a prison sentence.

The evening is warm and quiet, and Maxwell leads me around the corner to one of the narrow side streets where the sound of Michigan Avenue is just a dull roar in the background. Well-dressed businesspeople and residents of the incredibly expensive condos stand in the outdoor cafés, laughing and talking over sparkling glasses of wine.

“This used to be someone’s driveway,” I muse aloud. “Back when this was a residential neighborhood, before it was all high-rises.”

“Interesting,” he smiles as he walks beside me. “I did not know that.”

“Yeah,” I confirm, aware of how dorky I sound. “I like to try to imagine it, the way it looked before everything changed.”

“Right, horse-drawn carriages and everybody wearing hats,” he muses.

“Exactly,” I smile. “And nothing over three stories. Can you imagine? Everything flat.”

We slip through the crowd, with people not paying us any kind of attention. We look just like any other couple who belongs here. Except we are not a couple. But it’s easy just to find a maître d’ and flag down a table. In moments we are seated beside a concrete fountain with goblets of sparkling water and a basket of handmade breadsticks.

Arriving promptly, the waiter asks, “Tapas?”

Maxwell’s eyes flicker toward me to ask my approval before nodding. It’s a simple gesture: offering me the option to ask for a full menu instead of the small, delicate plates involved with tapas. It’s considerate of him to ask, but I like the variety and cleverness of the small plate offerings.

I’m too tired to order, and he seems to sense that. After negotiating for a few moments with the waiter, Maxwell turns to me and raises a glass of honey-colored wine in the air. I didn’t even notice I had a glass of wine in front of me. I almost want to giggle as I raise mine and clink the rim against his.

The first plates arrive with cured meats and mysterious slabs of creamy cheese, dotted with glistening pearls of oil and tiny crescents of sliced fig. As the first morsels brush my tongue, I realize that actually I’m famished. We eat with gusto, in silence, seeming to silently agree that our communication may be rocky, but this is really quite nice.

It’s effortless, I realize, if I just don’t fight it. I don’t have to do anything. Small dishes keep sho

wing up, with bites to eat that are more delicious every time I try them. My wine glass gets mysteriously refilled. I don’t have to ask for anything, and I don’t have to answer for anything.

It’s kind of a funny thing to say, but this is sort of strange for me. As a single woman living alone in Chicago, with five younger brothers and sisters that I nearly had to raise alone after my father died and before my mother got back on her feet, I’m not used to being a passenger. I’m not used to having things be easy. Even little things—ordering a meal, making sure the laundry is done, keeping the bills organized and paid—they’re not giant efforts, but they are not anyone’s responsibility but mine.

It is strangely pleasurable to just have someone else order the food.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks me suddenly, smiling over the rim of his glass.