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Essex
When I step into the lobby of my building, I see a yellow ‘caution-wet floor’ sign next to a puddle of brown liquid that I’m assuming is coffee. I mentally order myself to calm down. It’s just an accident, but the longer I see it, the stronger my agitation grows. My floor. This is what visitors will see when they step into my place of business. My business represents me. Accidents like this can’t happen here.
I was going to walk past it and keep it moving straight to the elevator, but I’m already in a crappy mood today due to a lack of sleep last night. That’s Quintessa’s fault. After being with her for the better part of yesterday, feeling her in my arms, she’s all I could think about when I closed my eyes. Instead of sleeping, I dreamed about her being next to me where she belongs. Whenever I tried to will myself to sleep, my brain kept me awake to relive every moment we spent together. The shape of her face is embedded in my memory. And her lips – I remember my mouth watering for the taste of them years ago and that longing continuously resides within me to this day. I love everything about Quintessa – from the way she laughs, how she challenges me and the frown she makes when I say something she doesn’t agree with.
Even on the drive over, I kept replaying the way her warm body felt between my arms. And to think I was going to settle for a handshake. I’m glad I didn’t. A mere handshake ain’t going to do nothing for me anymore.
I want Quintessa – need her so badly, my nerve endings ache. Anger settles in me at the thought I’ll never have her, or I’ll still be the guy who’s not good enough. Those distressing thoughts are why I suffer. And when I suffer, people who get in my way suffer – like the person who spilled this coffee and the janitor who has yet to clean it up. This is not what I want to see when I step into my place of business.
“Why is this coffee on my floor?” I yell right here in the lobby. My voice is so loud it ricochets off the walls. People stop what they’re doing when they hear the questioning, but no one says a word. I’m not talking to anyone in particular. I’m just waiting for someone to answer me.
The receptionist scampers over and says, “The janitor is coming to clean it up right now, Mr. DePaul.”
“Why isn’t it cleaned up already? If he can put a caution sign here, he can bring a mop and bucket. I don’t understand this.”
“I put the caution sign there, sir.”
“Then maybe you need a mop! Did you spill this?”
“No, sir. I—”
“Do I need to ban coffee in my building?”
“No, Mr. DePaul. It’ll get cleaned up, sir.”
“See that it does, or you can see your way out.”
“I’ll take care of it, sir.”
I continue to the elevator and catch Quintessa’s gaze from across the lobby. She looks shocked. Disgusted, maybe. She shakes her head and goes into the break room.
On the way up to my office, I try to massage frustration out of my neck. It doesn’t work. I’m tense and irritable. I probably should’ve stayed home.
As soon as I step off the elevators, Ms. Davison greets me with a smile.
“Good morning, Mr. DePaul. Your coffee is on your desk and your first meeting of the day is at nine.”
I keep on walking like I don’t hear her. I never told her to greet me in the mornings, give me any updates, or have coffee on my desk in the mornings. I’ll ask for coffee when I want it, but I guess she calls herself being proactive. The problem with that is, if I didn’t ask you to do something, why waste time doing it? I don’t want coffee sitting on the desk getting cold, waiting for my arrival.
Finally entering my office, I shut the door, let down the shades, and sit at my desk. I thread my hands behind my head and lean back. Just knowing Quintessa’s downstairs has me wanting to go see her. But I can’t do that. I won’t do that. She shouldn’t possess this much power over me.
What do I do now?
Deciding to dive into work, I key the password to unlock my computer and see a message waiting for me on our interoffice messaging system. I click on it. There’s a message from Quintessa.
Quintessa to Essex: what the heck was that?
The message came through five minutes ago. I already know what she’s referring to and though I told her to help me keep my attitude in check, I didn’t think she’d make an effort to do it. Pretending I have no idea what she’s talking about, I respond:
Essex to Quintessa: What was what? Why are you bothering me?
Quintessa to Essex: Bothering you?
Essex to Quintessa: yes. Bothering me
Quintessa to Essex: Because you told me to BOTHER you. No, you BEGGED me to, so that’s what I’m doing. Why were you in the building yelling first thing this morning? People haven’t even had time to wake up yet and you’re already yelling and barking orders.
Essex to Quintessa: there was coffee on the floor.
