Free The Kissing Game by Marie Turner Page B

her desk. Her face deepens to a shade of
hot as Robert advances. No doubt he is the best looking lawyer who has ever
spoken to her. While his tall frame leans over her desk, they exchange words. The
woman opens her desk drawer, pulls out a tiny paper package, and hands it to
Robert. Robert glides away from her and toward the little water-cooler, where
fills a paper cup full of water. On his way back to me, he passes the
receptionist again. She watches him, too.
    Soon standing before me holding a cup of water and Excedrin, he
says, “Here,” looking suddenly benighted with the white glow of the conference
room light over his head.
    “Thank you. How did you know I had a headache?” I inquire, taking
the pills and water from him.
    “You pinch the bridge of your nose until it’s red. You need take more
breaks, get something to drink,” he answers. He moves back to his side of the
table. “You get headaches from not drinking enough liquids, which makes you
dehydrated. You likely don’t eat enough either, which is why you can’t even
drink a small pina colada without—” and he catches himself. But I notice the
dragon is gone from his eyes. He picks up a box from the floor and sets it on
the conference table. “In any event, you should stop taking so much Excedrin. You’ll
kill your liver over time. If you ate more, you wouldn’t have so many
headaches.” He opens the box and parts the files with his fingers, his eyes
scanning paper.
    I’m just staring at him, with the water in one hand, the pills in
the other.  
    He almost snaps, “Take the pills and then take a break and order
us some sandwiches. I’ll have the usual.”
    “Right,” I mumble, then swallowing the Excedrin.
    I stand to go make the call but feel as though I’m lost on a
trail, or as though I have no trail to follow suddenly.
    Using the receptionist’s phone, I order Robert’s usual: “A chicken
breast, mayo, mustard, lettuce, and tomato,” but I’m watching Robert in the
conference room as I speak. Then I order a roast beef for myself. All I can
think as I speak into the phone is that Robert has never brought me Excedrin or
water. Not once. Frankly, before this moment, if I had been lying in the desert
dying of thirst and his town car had been speeding past, I would have doubted
he would even toss me a bottle of water out of the car window. When the
sandwiches arrive, we eat like kids in a cafeteria who hate each other.
    Once we finish our boxes, it’s past 8:30 p.m., the receptionist
area is a remote wasteland, and the whole floor is nearly empty. Each city of
boxes is neatly stacked and ready for copying.
    Alone, Robert and I clop toward the elevator, some files in tow.     
    “You can make the arrangements with Conrad tomorrow,” he
instructs. “He’s likely gone home for the evening anyway.”
    “Okay.”
    We enter the elevator together. It feels narrower going down than
going up.  Time has turned back and he seems to be the mountain beside me. In
my head I’m in the red dress threatening to kiss him again. And then I briefly
wonder what he would look like naked. Why do I think these thoughts? I don’t know.
My mind possesses a mind of its own. I refuse to look at him, but I can see his
reflection in the brass elevator door. His beauty overtakes him, even in the
distorted glossy image. We fall some forty stories together until the elevator
doors open and we exit single-file.
    “The town car can take you home if you like. It’s getting late to
take the bus.” He holds the main door open for me and outside our town car
awaits us. We slip inside and I feel a rush of dark as I contemplate why Robert
is being so nice to me. Is he that afraid?
    Soon the town car arrives at the office, and while I’m collecting
my backpack Robert emerges from his office and hands me a blue manila envelope.
    “Here,” he says. “I meant to give this to you earlier. If you
could sign it and give it back to me, I need to forward it to