SAMUEL
What the hell am I doing?
Greta and I have traversed the entire building. She has boosted my pride by oohing and ahhing at the appropriate moments, but when I remember her enthusiasm for the nearby Ross Dress for Less and Raising Cane’s, my own gratification is somewhat tempered.
We are now in the sleeping quarters of the center. There are no beds—thank God. The square cutouts in the walls where the windows will be let in the cool breeze of the April night. The rooms are small, dormitory-style, only large enough to accommodate two beds. The center will have the capacity to house fifty-two people at any given time, based on need. The occupancy is not my purview, however. I designed the space as per my client’s instructions. Once the center is complete, it will merely be another entry on my résumé, another group of photos in our catalog.
“This is phenomenal,” she says. Phenomenal is her word of choice. The first time she said it, my loins stirred. Now, on the eleventh usage, I feel my scrotum shrivel.
Greta walks the length of the room, away from me, then turns on her stiletto heels, and walks back toward me. She smiles like a Cheshire cat. “You really are amazing, you know.”
I shake my head. Her smile has brought my lower region back to life.
“This isn’t the Twin Towers, or the Chrysler Building or the Eiffel Tower,” I say.
She looks down at the concrete floor, which a month from now will be covered with laminate masquerading as hard wood.
“No, it’s none of those things,” she says. “But this place, it has a purpose. An honorable purpose. And you have created a space that will give dignity to those poor souls who need to be here, who’ve come for redemption.”
Her assessment causes me to take a step toward her. Despite my ambivalence about this project, nothing is more seductive than a beautiful woman’s idolatry.
“I’ve learned so much from you, Samuel,” she says, her luscious lips turning up into a smile.
“I’m glad.” I can’t think of anything else to say.
“And I really appreciate the interest you’ve taken in me. You’re so patient. You take time. You’ve really helped me to understand the whole process.” Another step toward me. A mere eighteen inches separate us.
My brain suddenly suffers from lack of circulation due to the fact that all the blood in my body is rushing to my dick. “A part of me always wanted to be a teacher.”
Her eyes go wide with glee. “You’d make a wonderful teacher.”
“You think?” I ask. Ironic, because I’ve lost the ability to form coherent thoughts.
“Definitely.”
I clear my throat, hoping to clear the fog from my head. “Well, teachers are paid a lot less than architects.”
Her gaze is direct. “Money isn’t everything.” She closes the space between us. I can feel her breath on my neck. “Can I tell you something?”
I nod, unable to trust my voice. She grins. “I think you know what I’m going to say, Samuel. I have a crush on you.”
I take a deep breath and exhale slowly as I quickly ponder the ramifications of her words. I knew it, of course I did, but confronted with her confirmation, I find myself at a loss. What now? My dick is hard, twitching, craving, ready. But my brain is full of noise.
“You have a crush on me, too, don’t you?”
I can’t bring myself to give her an answer. She doesn’t need one. She wraps her arms around my waist and presses herself against me. I don’t reciprocate, but my erection gives me away. She pulls away slightly, glances down, then back up again. Her grin has become feral.
“I knew it.” She rests her head against my chest and starts to slide her hands across my back. I remain paralyzed, unable to act or react, but Greta appears unfazed.
“It’s okay, Samuel. I know you’re conflicted. I am too. I like Rachel. She’s phenomenal. She gives me lovely gifts for my birthday and for Christmas. And the way she is with your kids. Fantastic.”
I want to yell at her to stop talking about my wife, especially while she rubs herself against me. It would be comical if it weren’t so grotesque.
“We don’t have to do anything,” she whispers, and the soft, throaty timbre of her voice almost sends me over the edge. I see myself grabbing her by the shoulders, shoving her against the wall, turning her around so that her ass is mine to own, to violate, to ram into until I explode inside her. This vision fills me with shame, but also with a sense of longing so excruciating, I can barely stand it.
Greta reaches up and grasps my neck with her hands and pulls my face toward hers. An instant later, she gently grazes her lips across mine. When I don’t protest, she tilts her face to the side and aggressively takes my mouth.
I could kiss her back. I would kiss her back, but I’m suddenly besieged by vivid images of my family. If a person on the brink of death sees his life flash before his eyes, a man on the brink of cheating might also see his wife, his children, his entire familial existence flash before his eyes.
Rachel on our wedding day, smiling, eyes dancing, beautiful. Rachel in labor with Eden, a fierce warrior; stitching a Halloween costume by hand, grinning as she sucks on her punctured thumb. Eden on the monkey bars, at her ballet recital, proudly displaying an academic award at school. Jonah riding his Big Wheel, writing his name for the first time, joyfully finding a wasp’s nest in the neighbor’s yard. The four of us on the beach, at Disneyland, at the fair, at dinner, laughing, holding hands, all of us together.
With those pictures of Rachel and Eden and Jonah crowding my mind, I realize that Greta’s lips, which I once thought sensual and imagined would be sweet like strawberries, taste bitter on my tongue. Her caress feels like dry ice scraping across the skin of my neck; her breath smells fetid. Bile rises from my stomach and burns my esophagus. My erection deflates, once and for all.
Even as Greta continues to grind against me and plant warm, wet kisses on my neck and nibble on my ear, I consider how best to disengage from her. She is a lovely young woman, and I don’t want to hurt her feelings or alienate her. Selfish bastard that I am, I don’t want to lose the best assistant I’ve ever had.
My ringtone chimes from my breast pocket, and Greta freezes. I take the opportunity to pull away from her. She steps back, grinning at me and breathing heavily, unaware of my complete withdrawal from the situation. I grab my cell from my pocket and stare at the screen, which is filled with the picture of my beautiful, smiling wife. Rachel.
How could I have allowed this to go so far?
I’m sorry, Rachel.
I can’t go through with it, though. Doesn’t that count for something?
I will never let anything like this happen again, I swear to you, Rachel.