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Natasha
I was already awake when the alarm when off at six, because like every other member of my family, I can’t sleep much past five-thirty. I sat up in bed, and after a very deep and satisfying stretch, I got out of bed and headed toward the bathroom.
“Good morning,” Lloyd said as he rolled over.
I mumbled the equivalent of a good morning and kept it moving. We were having yet another “Natasha didn’t act appropriately” argument. It seems that at the wedding, at my friend’s wedding, I wasn’t appropriately interested in the conversation that he was having about real estate development, nor was I the slightest bit interested in the “Oh, how great it is to be me” conversation I was having with his wife.
I went in the bathroom and closed the door harder than I needed to, but so what, I was still mad and that was just my way of repeating the last words that I said to him last night.
You’re an asshole.
After I showered, did my hair and makeup, dressed in a black and blue color block, cap-sleeve dress and some Stuart Weitzman pumps that I got off the last chance rack at Macy’s, I left for work.
I’m a risk management analyst for Reese Group Insurance for my quote, unquote, rabbi, Olivia London. She is the vice president of risk management. I’ve worked closely with her since I started as a customer service rep at this company ten years ago.
I graduated with a degree in mathematics from the University of Florida, and quickly found out that despite being assured that my career outlook was bright, because according to the US Bureau of Labor, employment for mathematicians was expected to increase 23 percent faster than the average for all occupations, I couldn’t find a job in my field. I couldn’t even get an interview for the first seven months after I graduated. And after over a year of looking, I got off the high-and-mighty horse I was riding and began looking for a job—any job—as long as it was a job. So I was thrilled when I got the call from Olivia, who at that time was customer service manager, saying that I could start on Monday.
I remember that during the interview, after I got finished promising to be the greatest and most-dedicated employee that ever lived, Olivia sat back in her chair and smiled.
“No, you’re not. The first time somebody offers you a job that remotely relates to mathematics, you’ll be gone.”
I was about to deny it and promise to be as loyal an employee as I was going to be great and dedicated, when Olivia held up her hand.
“No need for you to deny it. We both know it’s the truth.”
Which is why I was shocked when she hired me. But on my first day at work, she explained why she took a chance on me.
“I see a future for both of us at this company and a future where you may actually get to apply that big-brain degree you got. Besides, I remember how damn depressing it was looking for a job, after I graduated from the University of Florida—Go Gators!—with my big-brain degree in philosophy.”
When Olivia transitioned into this department as VP, I came along as her assistant. In that position I liaised with brokerage firms and insurance companies, creating risk models and assisting in renewal information, gathering data from internal sources, analyzing historical insurance documentation. But since I had all the prerequisite positions and experiences, I had my eye on the analyst position. You know, finally getting a real chance to apply that big-brain degree I have.
And after awhile, I got it.
Every once in awhile when things get tight, Olivia will drag me back into doing my old job. She says it’s because I’m the only one she can really depend on. Since I’ve had a chance to work with her new assistant, I know what she means. It’s become a minor point of contention for me, because that’s not my job anymore. I really just want to be an analyst. Now my job is to interpret business requests from the risk management and insurance departments and respond promptly within twenty-four hours. Sounds exciting, right? But I gotta tell you, I’ve never been happier at work than I am now.
Once I had gotten settled in at my desk, I got to work. But throughout the day, I was continually mentally dragged back to the argument that I’d had with Lloyd. At this point, it was becoming one long argument because it doesn’t ever get resolved. The truth is that it will never get resolved because he doesn’t like me.
Not the real me.
It wasn’t always like that. When I first met Lloyd, I thought that he liked me. In so many ways he was like me: self-confident, self-aware, and happy and comfortable with who he is. And he is. But he wasn’t looking for me. Lloyd was looking for somebody that looked like me, but acted the way he wanted me to be. At first, the fact that I was beautiful, smart, and able to talk politics, current events and culture when we went out, seemed to make him happy. He thought I was all-that, so I didn’t realize that I was a trophy.
The beautiful dress he sent when we first started to date, wasn’t just a way of saying you’re beautiful and you’ll be beautiful in it. But in fact, it was a controlling way of making sure that I looked the part. The baubles and other fine gifts that I was happy to receive because I thought it was affectionate, was really compensation for being his trophy. The fact that I not only could keep up with the discussion, but could actually lead the discussion when talking to his peers, and the compliments that followed, wasn’t really about him being happy that I was bright, smart, and cultured. No, it was because I, once again, fit the role of trophy.
And the hot sex we used to have wasn’t about it being so good, because I was so sexually desirable and freaky. It was all about his need to be pleased regularly and my freaky-ass was more than willing to satisfy his every desire. But for me, it was about me wanting to connect on that level with the man I had fallen in love with, not just get off.
That has a lot to do with why I have little interest in doing it. And believe me; not doing it is hard for me because I like to do it.
A lot—I like to do it a lot.
Anyway, over time, I started to realize his motives, because when I attempted to share myself with him, my sometime goofy sense of humor, my love for unconventional things, my desire to sometimes do nothing and have mindlessly, stupid conversations about absolutely nothing, I found that he wasn’t the slightest bit interested in her. The real me. Lloyd wanted no parts of that chick.
It took me some time to get there, but I finally realized that his resistance to me actually being who I was made our relationship a sham. I was a damn trophy and I don’t like it one bit. Every so often I push my way out of the Natasha-box that Lloyd put me in, and each time, it causes a fight like the one we’re having now.
It was the end of the day and I had worked my way through it, mostly based on my enthusiasm about going to the Ritz Theatre tonight. They were having a series of old movies, and tonight it was Carmen Jones starring Dorothy Dandridge and Harry Belafonte. It’s one of my favorite movies and I’ve seen it more times than I can count, but never on the big screen; so I’m beyond excited about going.
And no, Lloyd is not going with me. When he asked who was in it, I said, “It stars Dorothy Dandridge.”
And he said, “Who’s that?”
