Good Pet

“I’m sorry to run out on you like this, honey, but I’ve got to get to work.”

For the first time since we got into this conversation, Dennis looks energized. He is totally and completely behind this idea, and in a way that I find odd. I would think he would be upset at me; grouch or complain at me for having to leave him like this, so abruptly, but he looks completely fine with it.

“Work’s important,” he says. “No harm done, Melissa.”

He leans in a bit.

“Listen. I don’t mean to be so hard on you, dear. But America’s not your lover. I am. Remember that when I say I’m tired of you not coming here.”

I nod, feeling a little better and worse, at the same time, after his words.

“I understand, Dennis.” I smile a little guiltily. “I like it here, though. You’d understand that, I think, if you come back here. If you visited in person, and are reminded of all the wonders that New York has to offer. If you met some of my friends, you would like them too, I think.”

Dennis replies with a hmmm, and I take this as my queue to leave.

“I’ve got to end this, for now, Dennis, but do you want to connect on Friday? Your Saturday afternoon?”

“That’s our routine, is it not?”

“Yes,” I say, “I just want to make sure you’re aware of what our agreement is.”

Here, I’m not able to keep my resentment and confusion at bay. I’ve started thinking and having feels about all of his mood swings.

“I haven’t forgotten our agreement,” he replies, sounding just as snappish.

“Fine, then I’ll talk to you again in a few days.”

“Fine.” Dennis moves a lock of his hair behind one of his ears. “In a few days.”

“I love…” Before I can finish saying what I was going to say, the call drops.

Or rather, Dennis hangs up.

“…you.”

I sit there for a few moments, completely blown away by his behavior.

How could he just hang up on me like that without even saying something like “I love you” at the end?

He always says that kind of thing.

I can’t think about it for long, though. I do have to get to work. And that requires me to get up from my desk, grab my things, and get out to my car. That’s a bunch of things I’m not going to be able to do if I’m sitting around here, completely dumbfounded by my boyfriend.

What the hell has gotten into him? I think, finishing up my tea, and shutting down my computer. What the hell is eating him at work so badly that he feels like he needs to act like that? Act loving and mean from one minute to the next?

With these thoughts in mind, I quickly grab my keys, my purse, and other essentials and head out the door.

I don’t know. And I don’t really care, I think from behind the wheel of my car and while preparing to drive out of my parking lot.

I’ve got work I need to focus on, not Dennis’s mood swings.

I think that, but I really feel completely differently: his mood swings are never a good thing.

And they are never simple, either.

Chapter Three

Tommy

Hoo-boy. Deep breaths, deep breaths. If you ever want to get out of the black hole, the cesspool known as the “legal assistants’ floor,” you’ve got to be braver than this and more in control than this, Tommy.

I look at myself in my crappy rearview mirror, ready and willing to admit the truth. It’s not even 9:30 in the morning yet, and I’m already sweating like a well-dressed pig.

Emphasis on the pig part. My clothes are rumpled enough to look like they came out of a pigsty, at least. My hair is a little on the unkempt side. And yes, before you ask, I’ve washed it this morning, like I do every morning.

And of course, on the day I need to look my best and feel my best, this is what happens — I’m sweating, way too much. My clothes are already wrinkled and disheveled. I don’t look like I deserve a promotion. My suit, despite being “nice,” has the unfortunate “frump” vibe to it, even though it was bought recently.

It’s the only suit I have. The only one that fits me. It’s something my dad got me for my high school graduation. It was way too big then, and it’s way too big now, over ten years later.

I sigh, fighting with the collar of my dress shirt and the collar of the suit jacket, to try to get them to lay flat or to do something other than looking like they don’t want to have anything to do with me.

No such luck, though. Messing with the jacket and dress shirt seems to only make things worse, and I look more disheveled or frumpier. And now, I’ve got even less time than I had before.