Andrew also works for one of my clients; my arrival occasionally overlaps with his departure.
One Tuesday about a month ago, that client made the privileged choice not to show up at his own office. Andrew waited behind to tell me.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I tell him. “I would have caught on.”
“I wanted to,” Andrew confides. “I’ve been waiting for you to arrive so that we could grab a cup of coffee together.”
I pull out my laptop, place it on the wide desk, lift its lid.
“I’m fine. Thank you though, Andrew. I think I’ll just wait to see if he shows.”
I’m pretending to miss the overtones of Andrew’s invitation for one very specific reason: Andrew and I have crossed paths many times. It’s possible we’ve even brushed shoulders in the tiny stairwell. He’s handsome, I suppose, and well-built. But I have never, ever felt the tiniest sexual stirring for him.
“Stop being silly,” he tells me.
I sit down in front of the computer. Begin logging on to my email.
“Come on. Let me buy you a coffee. It will take 30 minutes. Tops.”
I don’t even bother looking up.
Andrew responds to my refusal by walking over and shutting my laptop.
Surprised, I look at him.
Andrew is now doing that man thing of sliding half a butt up on my desk. You know that thing?
His arrogantly shutting my laptop is by far the most interesting thing about him, but that’s a bad sign, already.
“Here’s the deal,” Andrew tells me, leaning forward, getting conspiratorial. “Either you go out for a coffee with me now, or we go out to dinner on Friday. Your call.”
“Sorry?” I ask.
“I’m not leaving until you agree to one.”
“Are you serious?” I ask.
“The coffee will be faster, if you’re looking for the easiest out,” he offers, helpfully. And then he casually considers his nails, as if to show me that he’s got all the time in the world.
I have work to do.
Also, I have a broken heart.
Also, this guy is a total douche.
“Fine,” I tell him. “Friday.”
“Friday won’t work for me,” he smiles, lifting his ass from my workspace. “It will have to be Saturday.”
I already want to cancel.
I lift the lid on my laptop, feign interest in the screen a second.
“Listen, Andrew,” I finally say, as he opens the door to leave. “I don’t think this is a good idea. There just isn’t any chemistry.”
“Oh, I think we both know there is,” An-douche says.
And I’m so out of whack, that I almost believe him.