Alizarin Crimson: Day Two Hundred Twenty-One

445299_34858752Some days I get to the end and think if one single person asks for one single thing more, I will have to do something violent and drastic and I will not be able to stop it.  I’m just pulled to the absolute edge today.   I want to throw this hysterical, sobbing, chicken-wings flapping, accusatory fit.  Instead, I will write this.

A summer ago, there was a passing fancy when old boss had this idea in his head, that this guy who worked for one of our clients liked me.  And there were a few random instances where I cobbled together reasons to believe that was possible.  However, despite a year’s worth of opportunity, nothing ever came of it and I am a sensible lady and I am going to come down on the only side left to me…he was just not that into me.

But today, he had to email me and ask for a check and after a bit of a comedy of errors on amounts, he writes (in pleasingly good English) that he’s feeling the Friday and would be glad to just walk down and get it.  And I say, with what I think is utter sangfroid: okay.

And then I think, despite feeling lumpy and awful, that if this kid is going to walk down and pick this check up from me, if I’m going to worry about talking to him at all, if I’m going to have one nth of a chance, I probably should put some makeup on my face.  That it would make me, at least, feel better.  I’ve been working from the moment I got in the door and never have enough time before I leave the house anymore.  So I run out to the car where I have my makeup bag where I always intend to snag it and do this within ten minutes of my arrival at work and never, ever do.  Then, I slap some of the warmer than comfortable liquid foundation on my face and some eyeshadow and hurry back to my desk, to look casual and aloof, or whatever I think my game is.  Then, he gets caught up in something at his work and it takes him a while and he emails me to let me know and I half-consider finishing “fixing” my face, but mostly just berate myself for flapping around like an excited puppy over someone who clearly is way more professional than I am and again, to confirm, is not a secret admirer.

But I do put on some lipstick, because, no matter what I’m telling myself, I’m still feeling this inane excitement of someone about whom rumors were once bandied.  Having given up any hope of my friend’s interest last night, I needed something, a boost, a feeling of goddamned testosterone instead of old women trying to be chummy with me  Empirical evidence of disinterest be damned.

By the time, though, that 0% Interest Guy turns up, with a kind smile, I’m way too invested in a stupid phone call to break away and I have to just hand him the check and whatever he does after that, I don’t see because I have to sort out booking an RV park reservation or listen to a woman stop and buy pink lemonade she’s not going to drink from some kids’ stand.  If he stands in the threshhold looking longingly back at me, I don’t see it.

Finally, I get to hang up the phone, maybe five or ten minutes later, and I feel like an idiot all over again.  This hot rush runs over my mosquito-bit body.  I’d forgotten that feeling, which I suppose is something to cling to, a low necessary to a high.

 

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