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bloom
and inhale the scent reminding myself how delightful it feels to receive a
fresh bouquet. I should give him credit for that, at least.
    “Hey, Rachel!” Julie greets me. “The roses still look
fabulous. Did you thank your victim?”
    I smile and feel the urge to share. “Yeah, we had a drink
after work last night.”
    “No!” She plops herself in the chair next to my desk and
leans forward. “Tell me, what happened?”
    “I ordered a Coke, he had a Bud, and we just talked.” I try
to make light of it, then added the rest. “Then he drove me home.”
    “Wow, did he come in and you guys…you know…?”
    “Gosh, do you think I’m bonkers?” I squawk at her in
disbelief. “I hardly know the man. No, I didn’t invite him in.”
    “Are you going to see him again?”
    Now the questions are annoying me. Why do I share when I
know that people are going to poke and pry even more? There’s a reason I’m
private, and this it is—Julie Rogers with her big nose. If I tell her
everything, soon the whole office will know of my personal life before the noon
hour. Afterward, in the months that follow, everyone will line up at my desk
telling me what to do next.
    “I’m not sure,” I say, turning my head away. I push the
power button on my computer and wait for the software welcome sign. Maybe
she’ll get the hint her welcome has ended.
    “Well, let me know if anything comes of it,” she says, with
a tad bit of disappointment in her voice. She rises from the chair and heads
over to her home-sweet-cubicle.
    As I wait for the computer, I glance at the picture of my cat
stuck to my cube’s wall with a push pin. Whiskers, my life. My eyes turn toward
the flowers, and I imagine a picture of Ian, with six-pack abs, sitting in a
silver frame, adorning the corner of my desk. Now, wouldn’t that be something?
I’d never get any work done.
    At last, the computer is up. The clock has rolled over to
eight a.m. It’s time to get to work and leave my fantasies behind somewhere in
my mind. Already, I know that concentration is going to be difficult today.
When I’m down, I can’t focus, and work is painful. Mr. Stewart has filled my
incoming box to the top. He’s probably trying to pay me back for being late
yesterday.
    “Time to earn my $14.68 hourly wage,” I mutter under my
breath. I grab the first piece of paper and get at it.
    * * * *
    The week has shown me no mercy by making each day fly by
toward my decision point. He hasn’t called me, and I’m assuming he picked up
the hint that I don’t like to be pressured. I feel guilty that I haven’t
called, but I’ve thought it out carefully what I want to say.
    Late Thursday afternoon, I decide to take the leap.
Beforehand, I write down each point that I want to get across. Otherwise, I’ll
freeze in my thought process and forget everything. I want to hike at Multnomah
Falls. The place is crawling with people this time of the year, and the trails
are packed with visitors. There are bathrooms nearby, in case I lose it, and
places I can scream if I need to be rescued. Of course, it’s a long drop to the
bottom falls should he decide to push me from the top, but I know I’m
stretching the imagination with that lame thought. My pathetic paranoia
tendencies make absolutely no sense.
    I get up and walk over to the employee lounge again and dial
his number. It rings and then goes straight to voice mail.
    “You’ve reached Ian Richards. I’m away from my desk at the
moment or on the other line. Please leave a message, and I’ll return your call
as soon as possible. Thank you, and have a pleasant day.”
    I pull the phone away from my ear, drop my mouth open, and
look at it as if I just visited an alternate universe. Why is this guy so nice?
    Beep. I hear it and then bring the phone back up to
my ear and freeze for a second. “Uh, Ian? It’s me, Rachel. I’m calling about
Saturday.” I leave my number and hang up.
    My stomach is nauseated, and I feel my heart