Quintessa
Still fuming beyond the point of consolation, I skip lunch in the café to go outside and clear my head of him. I pull air willfully into my nostrils to wash away the smell of his cologne and soak up some spring sunshine. It’s a little windy today, seventy-eight degrees. A perfect blue sky. I can’t let this bad-mannered man ruin this perfect day God has given me.
So, I don’t.
After taking a lap around the parking lot, I drive to a nearby restaurant called The Sandbar – a place popular among tourists. I order coconut shrimp, plain fried shrimp and fries. I sit outside where I can still feel the breeze and enjoy the sun. I’m a tourist for the next forty-five minutes.
“Ah, this feels nice,” I say, sipping on a virgin strawberry margarita while waiting for my food. I rock to the beat of island music drifting through the speakers and shift my focus away from DePaul & Company to myself. My life. Since receiving my first paycheck a week ago, I have enough money for the first month and a deposit on a place.
Hallelujah!
Now, it’s just a matter of finding somewhere to live. Ella is searching for me since I refuse to be on the computer during company time doing anything other than work-related stuff. Mr. DePaul is already breathing down my throat. I don’t want to give him ammunition to call a meeting with me to go over the company’s Internet policy. And I’ve thought about quitting so many times, but that first paycheck was looking too nice to just walk away from. So, I told myself I would focus on work and my team, but it feels like every time I have an encounter with Mr. DePaul, it knocks me off track.
I digress.
While it’s a big part of living, there’s more to life than the company I work for. I think about my new start, about having my own place for the first time in a long time. I’ve imagined how I would decorate it so it’s an oasis – my private haven from the storm. A place I can rest after work.
I take a sip of margarita and look at my phone when I hear the voice of my nemesis say, “It’s too early to be drinking alcohol, isn’t it?”
You have got to be kidding me…
Mr. DePaul is approaching my table, looking at me like we had lunch plans and he’s running late. He has on a pair of dark-tinted sunglasses – I bet they cost a fortune – and he ditched the fancy suit-jacket to rock a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
He pulls the chair across from me, instantly making me feel dizzy with something related to anger. I’m more befuddled than anything else when it comes to this man. Why does he insist on bothering me?
At this point, I think I’ve developed an automatic frown anytime I’m near him. I ask, “What are you doing here?”
“Lunch. I eat here every Monday.”
“No, you don’t. You hardly leave your office on Mondays.”
He flashes a satisfying smirk. “How do you know that?”
“I just know.”
“Well, you’re partly right. I do eat here every Monday, but I have Ms. Davison pick it up for me.”
“Except today, huh?”
“Yeah. I felt like getting out today for lunch.”
“Well, don’t let me hold you up,” I say so he can bounce. “I’m sure you’re meeting up with someone.”
“I’m not. If you don’t mind, I’d like to eat right here. With you.”
Oh, I mind, all right! Why don’t you mind your business and leave me alone? I came over here to get away from you, and now, here you are. Why me? Why?
“Quintessa,” he says, my name rolling off his tongue naturally like it’s lived there when he calls no one by their first names. Everyone is either Mr., Mrs., or Ms. Today, I’m Quintessa.
I look up at him, wanting so badly to stand up to him, but something’s holding me back. Then I think of all the insults I’ve had to endure. Just this morning, he pretty much told me I was inept at my job. That he expected more out of me. Now he wants to invade my alone time with his presence. I don’t get it.
I sneer impatiently and say, “Fine. You can sit there, but I’m not going to listen to you disparage me. In fact, I don’t want to hear anything about work. I came here to get away from work.”
“Fine. No work talk,” he responds. He looks utterly pleased and satisfied – doesn’t have a care in the world.
I’m the exact opposite. I say, “I don’t know why you want to sit here, anyway. I didn’t think you had lunch with the peasants.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. DePaul,” the waitress says all bubbly like the sight of him has made her day. “Will you be having the usual?”