spin&stir.

hard to love.

I got called into The Boss’s office.

Two hours later, an hour after everyone else left, I sat with him cutting up catalogs and arranging the thumbnails of engraving art kits by theme.

He yells and snaps at other people. A forceful, “Shut the fuck up” or utter disgust conveyed by a bored tone he’s perfected to dismiss you and make you feel like you’re a piece of shit at the same time, completely useless to him, your existence is almost offensive.

I’ve yet to have him actually yell at me, though he’s told me to shut up and shushed me, but I take it in stride. That’s who he is, I accept it and work with it.

He reminds me a lot of my father and a lot of Jack, plus he’s a rich Greek who wears his hair a little long, just enough to have a jaunty curl, and a gold chain with a cross. Sitting across from him at his desk with no one else in the whole building—it was peaceful. He was jovial and lovely on the phone to an artist that creates the illustrations for the engraving art books. The sketches and proofs were brilliant—the dolphin he drew was so happy and joyful. The jellyfish were ethereal and fluid.

I surprised him when I pointed out we couldn’t include tigers on the African Safari theme—tigers don’t live in Africa. He actually smiled and laughed when he realized I was right and he never knew that.

He deliberately lowers his voice when he speaks to me. He stays calm (for him). I have the same effect on the volatile, outrageous Jack.
Even the way he would talk to himself and make little vulgar comments for the pleasure of saying something naughty was just like Jack.
“Aren’t I a bastard? I’m terrible,” he mused out loud with a little smile.
“Jack is just like you, I’m used to it.”
“Jack is your boyfriend,” he teased like a teenage girl would.

One of the first things he asked me when I walked into his office after he summoned me was, “Do you still hang out with Jack?”
“Yeah.”
“Hm.”
I left it alone. I might test the waters and let it slip that I have a feeling Jack really misses him and would like to be his go-to guy for things again.

before I got there Jack would talk about how he hated working there, he wanted to quit, he was trying to get fired. he kept saying that for another week or two after I came to work—and then he stopped. now he’s thought about quitting where I used to work. he told me it’s not the same—because I’m not there anymore.

it’s strange knowing him at both jobs—
at the old job, we were coworkers. now everything is upside down and flipped around. the first month we didn’t let on that we were friends, though people knew we used to work together. but now the cat is out of the bag—and everyone seems to get a kick out of our verbal sparring matches.

where was I?
oh yes.
The Boss.

I very much enjoyed the chance to help him with creative ideas. I typed a few things for him and thrilled a little at the thought of being an old fashioned secretary.
maybe it’s my inflated ego from being bipolar, but I feel like I have a special way with difficult men like him, my father, and of course Jack. oddly enough I think it has a lot to do with being a spinster. I’ve never been in a relationship, I’ve never depended on a man other than my father and brother-in-law in emergency situations but they’re family who happen to be men. it’s not a stretch to say that men treat me differently than most women, if not all. The Vampire said I was too smart, as if it was obvious that’s a big problem. Jack says it too. He says he doesn’t know what to do with me half the time because I’m not stupid like a girl should be but I’m not a man and it confuses him. I’m confused that he’s met so many stupid women.

maybe that’s what’s so special about me.

my “forever alone” fate is really what makes me have any significance in the unfathomable universe we exist in for whatever reason that may be. all I know is—I enjoy things like making impossible-to-please, hard-to-love men smile and laugh, seeing the drawings of sea life by an artist named Stan, and the way that a pair of blue eyes watch me in the rear view mirror every afternoon at lunch. I don’t think anyone can make him smile the way that I do.

little things keep me going.

I really don’t know how long I can keep swimming though. I’m just really tired.

if.

there is that “if” before the “only” in front of whatever wonderful fantasy that came to mind and stayed inside my skull.

I’ve been bugging him to cut his hair for weeks. I like it short, it was getting shaggy and made him look too young (even with the grey hairs I tease him about).
last night I walked into his apartment and he asked if I would cut his hair for him. a bit nonplussed, I agreed anyway but warned him I’d only ever attempted to shave a cat—and that didn’t turn out too well.
he was wearing jeans and a white t-shirt and it was timeless, he could’ve belonged to any era. he sat on the closed lid of the toilet while I read the directions to the trimmers.
I did the best I could not having had any practice, and as I moved his head this way and that with my hands and fingertips, I saw the way he was staring at me as I focused on evening out the cut (even though I still fudged it up a bit—he has weird shaped head, I couldn’t help it).

and then he wanted me to shave him and I did, lathering up the shaving cream and smoothing it over his cheeks, chin, upper lip. I lectured him on the horribly dull, cheap razors he uses and said I wasn’t responsible for any nicks or cuts because of inferior tools.

he sat there with his face turned up as I shaved his neck carefully. I had to lean in close to carefully shave a line at the edge of his jaw and chin.

and my thoughts drifted into a soft, romantic daydream—as they always do.

if only…I was really his wife, then I would have indulged in the need to kiss him. (He looked so darling and happy sitting there with lather on his cheeks, his bright blue eyes glittering behind his straight brown lashes that are long enough to dust his cheeks when he closes his eyes. I have studied his face endlessly and every inch is dear to me.)

if only he loved me as much as I love him.

if only he knew how to love me the way that I wish he could.

but maybe more importantly, if only I didn’t find it so hard to let him go.

inside I feel as if the constant tamping down of emotions, feelings, my own wants and needs, will destroy me before I can save myself.