“Yeah. I mean, no. Anyway, Zoe ruins your theory.”
“Who’s Zoe?”
“Short brown hair, glasses, little voice?”
“Ahhh… Hmm,” he says, struggling to place her.
“Well, maybe you haven’t met her yet.” In the three months you’ve worked here, I add silently.
“Right. Well, I mostly work with Leslie.”
I like how he pronounces the “s” in her name as if it’s a “z.” She hates that. I hope he says it like that every time he talks to her.
Snottily, I say, “She’s usually the one who has the least amount of real work to do,” proud of myself for having the presence of mind to get in a dig, knowing she’d do the same in my position.
He laughs. “I had noticed that. The rest of you will be beavering away at your desks, and she’ll be wandering around, announcing that she’s brewed a fresh pot of coffee or some other such nonsense.”
I barely keep from cracking up at 1) his use of the word, “beavering,” and 2) his very true observation about Leslie.
“You seem to keep pretty busy yourself,” I comment, hoping it doesn’t sound too much like I watch him all day.
“Better than being bored, I suppose,” he replies. “They have me working on the design for the new wing at the art museum.”
I point to let him know to get into the left lane so we’ll be in position to turn into the parking lot where my car is sitting. “Wow. That’s a big account,” I remark about his assignment. “No wonder you’re always at work.”
He shrugs. “Well, I have nothing better to do, really. New in town and all.” Quickly, he adds, “That is, I play rugby with some blokes on Thursday nights, so it’s not like I’m a complete and utter loser, but… yeah, I guess I sort of am.” He smiles over at me. I fall into that dimple again. “Uh… we’re here,” he announces, jerking his head toward his car’s twin, which he’s parked beside.
“Oh! Gosh! I was spaced out or something. Sorry.”
I fumble with the door handle, then realize the door’s locked. He hits the button to unlock it, while I mumble and stumble over the most inelegant “thanks” and “goodbye” in the history of manners.
He waits to make sure I’m safely in my car and that it starts before he pulls away, giving me a subtle salute. I rest my head on the steering wheel and wait for my heart to return to a normal rhythm before backing out and heading in the opposite direction for home.
4
Understandably, I couldn’t get Jude out of my head the rest of the long, rainy night. I went home to my cramped apartment and made a tasteless low-calorie microwave meal for myself, eating it in front of the TV, fending off my cat, Sandberg, until all that was left were the water chestnuts that neither one of us wanted. Then I watched an hour of a chick flick on cable before realizing I’d already seen it and hated it the first time.
I kept wondering what Jude was doing. Judging by what he’d said to me in the car, probably something similar to me, I decided (minus the chick flick). Unless he was playing rugby. No, that’s on Thursdays, I reminded myself, distractedly worrying a rough edge on one of my fingernails.
What’s up with that, anyway? Rugby? Really? I had him pegged for a tennis guy. Or polo. Or soccer, at the roughest. It’s not that he’s wimpy-looking, but he’s tall. And thin. I hear the word “rugby” and I think of stout, fireplug-shaped guys beating the crap out of each other on a muddy field. Jude sits (or stands) in an office all day. Rugby is… brutal. And dirty. I watched part of a game one Saturday when there was absolutely nothing else on TV, and I was shocked. It was like mud-wrestling… with a ball. Guys were bleeding! I turned it off after a guy took an elbow to the face, breaking his nose and sending a fountain of blood arcing onto the field. I made a note to look for bruising on Jude on Fridays.
The car thing had me shaken, too. At first, it was a funny coincidence. And then the more I thought about it, the more sinister it seemed. Okay, maybe not sinister, but creepy at the very least. I mean, what are the chances? (If he’d had a Ryne Sandberg bobblehead doll suction-cupped to his dashboard, I would have really freaked.) Plus I’d totally pictured him driving something like a Mini Cooper or an Aston Martin. Well, maybe not something that fancy, but something, well, European. Not a Japanese puddle-jumper. Automatic, to boot. Fantasy Jude likes to use the stick shift. So much more aggressive and manly. In a clean, non-bloody way.
By the time I’d obsessed about every heretofore-known discrepancy between Real Jude and Fantasy Jude, the crappy movie was over, and Sandberg was trying to coax me over to the bed, rubbing against me and purring. It’s so sad when your cat is the only guy interested in getting you in the sack.
Today. I’m grumpy. I tossed and turned last night, unable to get a good scene going between Fantasy Jude and me. Real Jude kept butting in, calling me Lisa and babbling about frogs and toads and pans. I kept getting the two Judes confused. And we can’t have that. I work with Real Jude. He needs to stay at work. In his little glass office.
Just before I’m getting ready to leave with Lisa and Zoe for lunch, he walks past my cubicle and backtracks. He pokes his head around the partition. “Whatchya,” he says simply, smiling, then going on.
“Hey!” Lisa answers to his back, widening her eyes at me.
Zoe squeezes my arm. “What was that?”
I blush but try to hide it by pretending to search for something in my purse. “Nothing. He gave me a
