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She had to cure this somehow. When she got back to the office with her sandwich, she perused her files. As she ate she reread an article she found that was sent around last year. About dealing with attraction in the workplace. If males and females were working together, they should channel any attraction or sexual tension into the project instead of toward each other. There was research showing that sexual tension channeled in this way actually improved productivity. But they weren’t working on a project together. How can I do this, I’ve got nothing to channel into? Unless she took his yoga class. Their project could be her learning yoga. She could channel her feelings into better and better stretches and headstands and contortions. The next day she brought the outfit she had bought to work. At ll:50 she drew the blinds, locked the door, and changed. She went in front of the mirror in the Ladies Room to see how it looked. The outlines of her nipples showed a little through the tank top. Which was good. But the right one was too high, and when she adjusted the bra, then the left was too high. It took her about ten minutes to get them level. She combed her hair and reapplied her lipstick. After waiting too long for the elevator, she ran down the stairs, but not fast enough to get sweaty. Although her heart was pounding when she got outside. A perky woman was teaching the class. With curly hair corralled by a scrunchy. Where was Dillon? The handshakes, the hugs. Because he was leaving? And he’d wanted to tell her -- what? She moved vaguely in a semblance of the positions. What had he wanted to tell her? The forty-minute class seemed to take forever. Finally it was over and she went back upstairs and changed clothes. Goodbye? Was that all? No. It couldn’t have been just that. If he didn’t have feelings for her, why would he have wanted to say anything? Yes, that made sense. And that meant the tuft in the drawer had to be he loves me not. She pulled open the drawer and dropped the tuft into the wastebasket. Which meant -- “He loves me,” she whispered to the tuft still left on the stem. That’s why he quit. Surely. To save his marriage. It was a noble gesture, she had to honor it. “He did it for you, Sorrel. And the baby.” She pictured them all together in a tidy nursery with a green color scheme. One more look. To say goodbye. She tried to open the Stress Bester site on her computer but it wouldn’t come up. She tried again a little later and scrolled down to the place with his picture. It wasn’t his picture anymore. It was Ms. Perky, this time with her curly hair creating turbulence around her shoulders. Karen did another Google search. Now it was only the podiatrist and the woman in England.
The next morning as Karen sat down at her desk, she pulled an empty staple box from her purse. Last night she had tenderly, carefully glued a lining into the little box, cut from a gold velvet ribbon left over from Christmas. She picked up the withered dandelion stem with its last white tuft and laid it on the velvet. Two tears rolled down her face and made little wet spots on her skirt. She closed the box, hugged it to her chest for a few moments. Then she stuck it way in the back of her center desk drawer. Channel it into the project. No doubt into a lot of projects. Except they would have to be her projects and not theirs. His project was with Sorrel. She picked up a sheaf of papers. She opened the spreadsheet for next year’s budget. She thought about the shriveled stem in the staple box. Dandelions.
Something else in life which really ought to come with a warning
label.
***END***
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