Carried Away

Was it the best kiss ever? No.

Was it terrible? No.

It just didn’t live up to the fantasy and the fantasy had been nothing short of spectacular for years. Then again I was drunk, so maybe my memory of it hasn’t served me well. Which is why I’ve chalked it up to my bad and not his.

After a few minutes of sloppy kissing, Ben pulled away, looking disheveled and uncharacteristically unsure of himself. He ran his hands through his hair as he apologized in that charming British way of his (which could probably get him out of murder rap) and stormed out, leaving me there alone to wonder what the heck had happened.

But that was six weeks ago and this is now. And now, sitting on his throne of accomplishments, Ben looks very sure of himself. Less so of me. Regardless, I’m not hitting the panic button because he can’t fire me even if he wants to. I’m his go-getter. The one in the office that never ever says no to him. I’m absolutely certain he can’t fire me any more than he can do without his right hand.

Impatiently, I glance at the iPhone resting on my lap. A mountain of research is waiting for me on my laptop––a story I brought to Ben that I’m working on for him––and the deadline is hanging over my head.

“To lunch?” is the only reasonable assumption. “I don’t have time today.”

Once again, I’ll probably spend the weekend working. Lunch isn’t even an option. My job is basically all I have and I really don’t mind it. This is what I’ve always wanted, after all. What I’ve been working towards since I graduated top of my class from Arizona State with a BA in Journalism. Well, not exactly this. Not the trips to the dry cleaners for Ben. Not the hunt for the gluten-free pizza for Ben. Not the late nights I’ve spent double checking another journalist’s work because Ben asked me to when he/she was too lazy to follow up on he/she’s own sources.

What I mean by this is all I have is that I have goals to achieve, awards to win, stories to tell, and slaving for Ben is going to help me accomplish all that. Having a personal life comes in at a distant second in level of importance.

He makes a face and for the first time since I’ve been summoned to his office doubt creeps in. It’s Ben’s constipated face. I know it well. The corners of his mouth are tight and slightly turned up, his brow furrowed. I’ve seen it countless times when he’s dumping whatever it-girl of the moment he’s lost interest in.

“No, umm…for good.” His eyes shift away, to the screen of his desktop computer before he can even finish the last consonant. The same combo of vowels and consonants that are, at present, echoing in my head like a death knell.

I…am…being fired.

“Are you alright?” he says an undetermined amount of time later.

No. No, I am not alright. I’m as far from alright as I could possibly be. I want to scream right now. Instead, I shove it back down and work on measuring my breathing before I faint.

The bottom just fell out of my life. I can’t afford to be unemployed. Not now. Probably not ever.

My gaze falls on the small coffee stain on the right thigh of my wrinkled pants and anger the likes of which I’ve rarely felt before rises to the surface. It’s a perfect visual representation of my life: unnoticed and under appreciated. Had I known what was in store for me today I would’ve gone to the dry cleaners to pick up the clothes that had been there for weeks because I’ve been working overtime. I would’ve worn the Nars Inappropriate Red lipstick and my Chloe suit, the one my sister bought me for my birthday, the one that makes me look somewhat like a badass bitch. And I would’ve most definitely washed my hair.

Instead, I find myself getting fired in the same wrinkled Banana Republic grey pantsuit I’ve worn all week with my hair in a ponytail because dry shampoo can’t actually perform miracles no matter what they tell you looking like your run-of-the-mill basic bitch.

A dry, nervous chuckle bursts out of me. “Why?”

As my mouth is forming that word, the answer hits me with crystal clarity. My mind conjures images of the bathroom kiss, and heat blankets my neck.

“Why what?”

“Why am I being fired?” I clarify over the grinding of my molars. Just because I’m willing to sacrifice everything for the greater good doesn’t mean I’m about to roll over and play dead on command. I want to hear it said out loud that I’m being fired over a kiss.

He makes a confused face. “For starters”––his head bobs to the left––“it was the initial tweet.”