Under My Boss's Direction

Banter, as good as it can get on a podcast, is blasting through my earphones as I stand behind the sink, bathing in sunlight that’s pouring in through my window, as golden as wine on the lips with a lover's letter between one’s fingers.

It’s a glorious morning, one that has found me wishing I could go for a run through the melody of the newly paved park before the first snow comes in. The grass in Booksfield, also known as America's Little Heart, as well as my home, has never been greener, yet the rain, as recent as a sudden urge to floss in the middle of the day, has proved that fact wrong.

To say that the alleys and flatbed pathways and the cafes and the little corner shops with the red and blue flags jutting out from the warped tent roofing don’t miss the flamboyance of family, of friendships and lovers walking, jogging, making love or ending it, out there, in the open, where the blue sky and the omniscient sun see and bless everything, would be a lie.

Lives had never been the same since the onslaught of masks and arms-length greetings and remote work and classes and awkward virtual sex, and here I am contemplating a run through the controlled chaos, smirking at the conversational audio buzzing in my ears, when my phone rings and I see that it’s the one person I actually want to be calling me.

"Good morning, Nellie."

"Morning, Denue."

"Did I wake you?"

"It's one in the afternoon, sir. If I were sleeping, you wouldn't still be paying me."

The man would be the worst, and paradoxically, the best poker player walking. Even through the phone, anyone could tell whether he had worked out today, or wore his favorite cuff links to work, or had even eaten breakfast, or was smiling his dimples off while talking to me.

"That's what I'm talking about," he says. "Blooming energy on a Thursday afternoon during a depressing pandemic is what I like about you."

"And not the picture of me hanging behind your desk?"

"Hey, you're the one who wanted to be in the middle of that meeting. And besides, yellow looks fantastic on you."

Had I gone beyond being bold and flirtatious with my boss?

Sure.

He had started it, though, weeks ago, and playfully, I went along with it. There hasn't been much going on with respect to socializing, and the daily calls were, and still are, a saving grace from going mad in the isolation.

"The Chester-Billings case file," he says, suddenly getting professional.

"I sent it over by email. Two days ago."

He swears. I can tell he slapped his knee while at it.

"Sorry. I think I must have knocked the server off its connection last week."

"How?"

"I pushed a button. The darned thing has not blinked since."

I can tell where this was going, and I can also taste the rushed beating of my heart. It was metallic, spicy.

“Sounds like a personal problem,” I joke.

"I’m no good at doing email printing, Nellie. I'm sorry, but would you mind doing me the favor and running it over? I'll reimburse you."

And then, I can imagine that he’s biting his lips. He knows as well as I do that our correspondence for the last couple of weeks has always been online. Email is my normal way of sending him things. But now, he wants a delivery.

I know he’s lying about not being able to get the email. He’s as tech savvy as they come.

I also knew the significance of his request. It would mean bridging our two separate worlds together. It would mean coming together face to face when the rest of the world is in isolation and we have been too until now.

"I'll have it over to you ASAP."

"Thanks again, Nellie. I owe you one."

And now for something of great meaning…

The podcast is back on, the call having been disconnected. The sun shines even more brightly than I had perceived before Denue had called. The still wet asphalt seems even blacker, the muddy pots housing my chrysanthemums outside my kitchen window seem to have bloomed more already, and the air around my nose, my lips and my skin feel tighter.

Chapter Two

Denue

I had been on the floor, grieving over the loss of a number of calories, sweating profusely and begging the instructor, Bert, to let me rest and leave me alone. My arms were weak, tired at best, and I could no longer pursue the Crossfit minimum for the day.

He told me to take some time off, and that tomorrow would be a hounding, right before exiting our virtual meeting. It was hurtful, to say the least, but so relieving when I scarfed down the chicken soup I had hidden behind the laptop before the session.

It was intense, trying to keep focus. The company had been facing fresh hurdles, some that the average CEO and chairman from fifty years ago would find quite the feat.