MARIE: Very.
SHMAC: Okay. Narrowingly: things are great, in the worst possible way. We’ve been working together a lot because that’s what the project demands. Which might be why I’m on my fourth beer on a Thursday night.
MARIE: Why is working together bad?
SHMAC: It’s just... I know things about her.
MARIE: Things?
SHMAC: I know what she loves to eat, what shows she watches, what makes her laugh, her opinions on pets. I know her dislikes (aside from me). I’ve been cataloging a million little quirks of hers in my head, and they are enchanting. She is enchanting. Smart, funny, an incredible scientist. And... there are things. Things I think about. But I’m drunk, and this is inappropriate.
MARIE: I love inappropriate.
SHMAC: Do you?
MARIE: Sometimes. Hit me.
SHMAC: I need you to know that I’d never do anything to make her uncomfortable.
MARIE: Shmac, I know that. And if you ever did, I’d cut your dick off with a rusty scalpel.
SHMAC: Fair.
MARIE: Tell me.
The clock in the kitchen ticks on. Late-night cars make soft noises past the window, and the screen of my phone goes black. I don’t think Shmac will continue. I don’t think he’ll open up, and it makes me sad. Even though I don’t know anything about his life, I get the impression that if he doesn’t do it with me, he won’t with anyone else. My eyes drift closed, accustomed to the dark, and that’s when my screen lights up again.
The air rushes out of my lungs.
SHMAC: I know what she smells like. This little freckle on her neck when she pulls up her hair. Her upper lip is a little plumper than the lower. The curve of her wrist, when she holds a pen. It’s wrong, really wrong, but I know the shape of her. I go to sleep thinking about it, and then I wake up, go to work, and she is there, and it’s impossible. I tell her stuff I know she’ll agree to, just to hear her hum back at me. It’s like hot water down my fucking spine. She’s married. She’s brilliant. She trusts me, and all I think about is taking her to my office, stripping her, doing unspeakable things to her. And I want to tell her. I want to tell her that she’s luminous, she’s so bright in my mind, sometimes I can’t focus. Sometimes I forget why I came into the room. I’m distracted. I want to push her against a wall, and I want her to push back. I want to go back in time and punch her stupid husband on the day I met him and then travel back to the future and punch him again. I want to buy her flowers, food, books. I want to hold her hand, and I want to lock her in my bedroom. She’s everything I ever wanted and I want to inject her into my veins and also to never see her again. There’s nothing like her and these feelings, they are fucking intolerable. They were half-asleep while she was gone, but now she’s here and my body thinks it’s a fucking teenager and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. There is nothing I can do, so I’ll just... not.
I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I can’t even swallow the knot in my throat. I might actually cry. For him. For this girl, who’ll never know that someone holds these mountains of want inside. And maybe for me, because I’ve made the choice to never feel this, never again. Never ever, and I realize now, now for the first time, what a terrible price I will pay. What a loss it will be.
MARIE: Oh, Shmac.
What else is there to say? He’s in love with someone who doesn’t love him back. Who is married. This story has no happy ending. And I think he knows, because he only replies with,
SHMAC: Yeah.
•••
“HEY, BEE.”
I set aside my article and smile at Lamar. “What’s up?”
“Not much. Just wanted to tell you that I’ve updated the log system on the server.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Nothing is changing on your end, but now users removing, replacing, or modifying files are automatically tracked. If something’s iffy, we’ll know who’s responsible.”
“Great.” I frown. “Why did you do that?”
“Because of the issues.”
“The issues?”
“Yeah. Missing files and all that. Levi called an engineering meeting to tear us a new one and asked me to change the server code.” He shrugs sheepishly. “Sorry about the mess.” He slips out of my office, leaving me to stare at my article. I am still staring three minutes later when someone else knocks on the doorframe.