Free Office Girl by Joe Meno Page A

have a seat.”
    Jack takes a seat, directly across from a good-looking girl in a dark turtleneck, who is flipping through a glossy magazine. The girl is maybe twenty-five, twenty-six years old. Jack watches her for a moment. She nods at him and smiles a curt little smile, which is just enough as she has the most darling dimples he has ever seen.
    â€œHi,” he says.
    â€œHello,” she says.
    â€œI really hate going to the dentist,” he announces as much to himself as to anyone else.
    But the girl nods.
    â€œI really do. I don’t know why. Are you nervous at all?” he asks.
    The girl looks up and smiles, surprised. “I’m okay.” She directs her attention back down to the magazine.
    â€œI used to be nervous whenever I had to go to the doctor when I was a kid,” he says. “My parents are doctors, though. Which is weird when you think about it. But they’re shrinks. So that doesn’t really count. Actually, my father and mother, and also my stepfather, are all psychiatrists. Or psychologists. I forget which.”
    The girl nods.
    Jack retrieves the silver tape recorder from his pocket, pointing it directly at her. “Do you mind if I ask you a couple questions? It’s for this project I’m working on. I try to interview different people when I meet them. It’s just this thing I do. Is that cool?”
    â€œâ€””
    â€œOr do you mind?” he asks again. But the girl does not respond, only turns her attention back toward the magazine.
    â€œOkay. How about this. Here’s an easy one to start off. Do you think my forehead is too wide? Be honest.”
    The girl breathes a little hassled breath through her nose.
    â€œNo. Okay, what famous person would you be and why?”
    The girl looks at him and frowns and then says, “I’m just here to get my teeth cleaned.”
    Jack nods and smiles. His eyebrows are raised as he points timidly. “It’s just … you have really great dimples.”
    â€œThanks,” she says, but does not look up.
    â€œI usually don’t notice people’s faces, but you …”
    The girl nods, afraid to look him in the eyes.
    â€œThey’re just nice-looking. Your dimples. That’s weirdsounding. Talking about someone else’s dimples,” he says.
    The girl stands, sets down the magazine, and then crosses the small waiting room to the receptionist’s desk. She whispers something to the receptionist, who peeks over the edge of her modernist furniture to stare derisively at Jack.
    Jack then finds himself standing, forcing the tape recorder back into his pocket, feeling incredibly embarrassed. His face is now bright red. He gathers up his things, pulling his hat and gloves back on, and leaves in a hurry.

AND TO HIS MOTHER’S APARTMENT.
    Before the elevator doors close in front of him, he has already decided that he is done, done with human relations of any kind—that all these feelings are hardly worth it. He is going to talk to his mom, who is a psychiatrist and probably the most reasonable person he knows. He’s going to tell her everything. The elevator doors begin to close before him as Mrs. Canarski from the fourth floor approaches with her famous toy poodle. But Jack does not try and stop the doors from closing. The elderly lady looks at him as if she has just been slapped. The poodle barks a sharp note in protest. The old woman, struggling to hold the animal, spills a bag of groceries, and a single orange rolls inside the elevator. The doors close. It is quiet. It’s the first time there’s no noise and Jack looks down and sees the single orange lying at his feet and then it is like a moment from a dream; it is happening but not yet happening. And he feels like something in him is giving up. Something’s changing.
    The apartment is quiet when he enters; he mumbles an awkward hello but hears no answer. What now? He is feeling worse than he