The Business

She's supposed to love me, pretend to love me, pretend to be my wife or girlfriend or something, I can't remember. She's cute, blonde, pixie haircut, but one I can stand. Loose, drapey sweater that you wouldn't think would look good on camera. Some mud and tan, charcoal and olive vaguely paisley number. Short, maybe a little over five feet, with a bright smile and she does seem like the definition of what you think a cute girl might look like. Real Girl Next Door. Real sweet.

I'm just feeling bad that I didn't shower. She's supposed to run her fingers through my hair, adjust it or something, poke around at me a bit. I can feel the sweat under my arms, of all the times not to wear an undershirt, this stupid ridiculous rule I have. I was soaked through in more places than one when I arrived at the agency and bee-lined to the bathroom, dried what I could of myself with the hand dryer. But my body heat it still high, I'm a hot body, and I'm sweating through again. My hair is acceptable I suppose, with a straggler here and there. But there's a general curl to it and it looks decently unmatted and I just couldn't make it to the shower. Still, the grease, it's there if you look at it, if you're looking. And certainly if you're sticking your cute little blonde fingers in it.

I feel the need to tell her all this. She's more concerned with her summer, thinking about something fun she did.

"What am I going to tell them?"

"I don't know. You didn't do anything fun? Go to the beach?"

"Yeah," she shrugs, "I guess. But, ugh, that's so boring." I don't know. I like the beach a lot. I like that windswept hair. It's a day for thinking about hair it would seem. "What are you going to say?"

"I can't tell you that. If they have you go first you might steal it, then where would I be?" She laughs at this. I think about asking her out, not now, but maybe after when we're both leaving, that second right outside the door when we could either go left or go right or part ways. She's supposed to love me, pretend to love me, and I'll pretend to love her back, and that will ease the transition. That's the business though, you can never tell you likes you and you hates you because they all seem to like you.

She ends up telling some lie about skydiving. It's so good she even had me going, I have to ask her if it actually happened or not. I'm not even trying to butter her up but I can tell she appreciates it.

I'm bending over, getting my bag from under the chair, thinking about how exactly to ask her out because I definitely decided I will. We walk out together, or not together, but nearly together, basically together. And as I hold the door for her she thanks me, flashes me a smile over her shoulder and she walks west. I have to walk east. I think about whether or not I should call after her, but the thought lasts so long that that's all it can be, a thought.

I turn around and go, don't want to seem like I'm staring. I stop in to get an ice cream. And I can't stop thinking that she, whatever her name was, was supposed to love me.