I had only texted with her. I "met" her through a job-seeking group, she was a contact at a company I interviewed with, but I was not hired. She gave me a glowing review based on the words of my career coach, who later betrayed me, but that is a story for another day, after the litigious dust settles.
She was pretty in her LinkedIn profile. Professionally dressed, shoulder length brown hair, a beautiful smile, nice teeth, wonderful eyes. Her texts were friendly, helpful, encouraging as only another job seeker can be, and completely devoid of any hint of flirting.
But that doesn't matter, does it. To the terminally lonely that doesn't matter. You see, lonely people are romantics, we have to be, we have to build up a fantasy world that is worth living in, otherwise reality crushes us under the jack-heeled boot of daily life.
After a futile set of interviews and the discouragement that comes along with "the hunt," she told me that she had gotten a job and would be relocating to Oklahoma, of all places. I told her I would buy her a surrey with fringe on top and she laughed at the reference, and we "chatted" about Broadway for a while.
She said she was leaving in three weeks and that she wanted to meet in person for a "hug and a handshake" before she left. Her office wasn't far from my house, so we arranged lunch on a day when I wouldn't be missed (all of them) and I drove through the canyon to meet her.
She looked great, a light linen jacket, tight jeans, tall boots, and oversize belt and a dark blouse that hid the curves and the fabric of her underwear. As she exited her building, I caught my breath and had to remind myself that it was all in my head, this fantasy, these wishful naughty thoughts.
True to her word, she was a hugger. She wrapped me in a deep embrace, and I felt her breasts against my chest, her small waist in my arms, and for a moment, her breath on my neck. We let go of each other and she squealed in delight, but not from the hug, but because she made eye contact with her friend, emerging from the parking lot and running over, as fast as her spike heels would let her.
"Clarisa!!" she screamed, in that high pitched girl scream that could mean joy or Spider!!
Another hug, longer, deeper, full of joy and sadness.
She turned around, holding her friend's hand, "This is Clarisa," she said, smiling. "She is my work wife, my friend, and confidant. And, she's joining us for lunch."
'Clarisa.' I thought, 'I'm 3rd wheel. Fuck.'
Clarisa had a firm handshake, a nice smile, not very pretty, foreign born, but I'm not supposed to notice that, I guess.
"Let's go!" she said, and I followed. They chatted about work, she explained why her husband wasn't coming to the planned happy hour after work, and they commiserated about the latest clusterfuck brought on by their boss's latest cost cutting measure.
"That's why you're here," she said to me, "but you're under an NDA so you can't say. Right?"
"I can neither confirm, nor deny, my assignment."
She laughed a bumped her shoulder into mine as we walked along the path. She already knew about the "top secret" project I was working on. When she asked me to confirm it, I told her should could whisper it in my ear over lunch. That was before I knew I was just a tag along.
She picked her favorite salad place across the street at the mall that on its last legs. The only thing driving traffic to the mall was a Costco and a Best Buy, but their clientele didn't shop at the $20 salad place my friend picked.
We were seated quickly and I arranged to sit next to her, and this brings me back to my thesis. Lonely people are hopeless, insane, delusional romantics, and nothing good comes of it.
Lunch was delicious. Tender chicken with perfectly crispy fingerling potatoes and a Cesar salad and a delightful chocolate chunk cookie to eat as we walked through the parking lot back to my desk, and back to her desk for the very last time. Off to Kentucky. One and done.
Sitting next to her, chatting, did our hands brush against each other as we reached for the salt? No. Did I feel her shift her position on the bench just slightly so our hips would touch, and, if she relaxed, her body would fall against mine? No. Did she offer to split the cookie and then ask me to feed her a piece? No. As we got up to leave, did she hug Clarissa goodbye and then ask me to walk with her on "one more errand" which really was an excuse to be alone behind the Eyeglasses Hut for a stolen kiss in the one area where there were no security cameras. No.
Just lunch, a goodbye, and insincere "keep in touch," and an already unfulfilled promise to invite me to her happy hour.
Lonely people are romantics, hopelessly delusional romantics, and it is misery.
