Free The Kissing Game by Marie Turner

right now. I can only
keep my fingers moving and attempt to concentrate on the task before me:
organizing boxes. Yes, that’s what I’m doing. Organizing boxes. I mark the one
in my lap with a giant “F” before putting it with the other “F” boxes.
    “Yeah, I’m sorry about that,” I say. “I don’t know what got into
me. I don’t usually drink.” His proximity seems too close although he’s across
the room. I can feel my own skin cells heating up. This is the terrible part
about being a fair-skinned redhead. When you’re embarrassed, your whole body
turns lava red, not just your neck or face. You can’t hide it.
    Meanwhile I can feel the anger blowing from his side of the room
and half expect him to be wielding a guillotine. After all, he has to know the havoc
it would cause for anyone to find out that we kissed. He has to be worrying
about his career right now.
    “That can never happen again,” he states, unequivocal. His voice
sounds deeper than usual, like a judge issuing a verdict, if that judge were
tall and lovely. Outside the conference room window, the sky darkens to a milky
charcoal, leaving only the artificial lights to illuminate him, but Robert
could be wearing the ugly black cloak of the grim reaper and still be beautiful
in any light.
    “Absolutely,” I say, a good assistant. Does he sense the bad
attitude emerging? I feel empowered by taking action. The thought of hurting
someone who has hurt me so much is like eating after a very long period of
famine. Maybe this is what I need to change my life—a little decisive, albeit dodgy,
action. I’m no longer milk-toast for Robert. No longer his wounded pet. I’m a
person, with thoughts and feelings, who exists outside of his realm of
influence. 
    “Another thing,” he continues. Oh no. “I hear you’ve been looking
into finding work elsewhere in the firm. Is that true?”
    Of all the things he might say to me today, this question was not
on my list. How did he find out about my applying for another job in the firm?
    “I’ve looked,” I choke out, a convict being sentenced. I feel that
I should continue talking, but what else can I say?
    “Why?” he asks.
    I hear his fingers stop walking through the files. With a file box
in my lap, I sit there in the chair, my fingers drifting nonstop through it.
Because you’re a horrible person to work for, I want to say, because you’re just
a horrible person, period, but my confidence only goes so far and then it flops
down and dies. Like a weak little lizard.
    “I don’t know,” I reply.
    There’s an immense silence. I can hear Robert resume skimming the
files. He pauses to take off his suit jacket and roll up the sleeves of his
white dress shirt. He loosens multicolored tie. Across the table, I glance at
his shirt but not his face. He really is very pretty if you can avoid hating
him so much.
    “There has to be a reason,” he blurts. “One doesn’t seek work
elsewhere without reason.” His voice is hot sand.
    “It doesn’t matter, does it? I didn’t get the job, so…” I’m
actually arguing with him; it feels alien. Our arguments are always one-way: he
yells at me and I retreat to lick my wounds.
     “And why the Public Relations Department? You have an interest in
working in PR?” He asks as though only boil weevils work in PR. “You’ve never
shown any inclination for a desire to work in PR.”
    “Not necessarily.” I attempt to avoid sounding as though I’m five
years old and don’t know what I want in life. And then I wonder why I didn’t get
that job in PR. Is it because the PR department called Robert? And what did
Robert say about me? If my last evaluation is any indication, he likely said
that I was as competent as a stick.
    “If you want to find work elsewhere, all you have to do is tell
me. I can certainly help make that happen.”
    “That’s not necessary,” I say.
    And there it is again. The dragon fuming beneath the surface. He
can only keep it in