I write in you at my windowsill as rain cascades down the thin pane of glass that separates me from this cruel world. The rain is cool, yet inside I feel hot with lust.
With my days at Complex dwindling and Valentine’s nigh, it’s time to come clean. Everyone and their mother believes me to be single, I most certainly am not. I'm actually in a very committed relationship. Really. But no one can know.
So I turn to you, diary. You see, my love and I must keep our affair a secret because we met at our place of work, and we don’t want this relationship to jeopardize our promising careers. We come from two different departments—no, worlds. Star-crossed lovers, like Romeo and Juliet. Or Tyga and Kylie, until she turned 18.
My heart is aflutter recalling our covert moments of aching desire. The time he wasn't by his desk at 11:30 a.m.—he hadn’t told me where he was!
I’ll never forget the moment we met. We reached the elevator vestibule at the same time at the closing of the day. Totally by coincidence. I wasn’t planning this at all as I watched him pack his bag to leave and then ran to follow him out. In my passion, I tripped over the janitor’s cart and played it off like I was fine, but I wasn’t. I was in pursuit of love, and time was of the essence.
‘Twas just us in the vestibule. He pushed the button that tells the elevators we wanted to descend to the lobby—together. And then we waited. Everything was still and silent, except for my beating heart. We waited. I strained to listen for the elevator. We waited longer. The silence was pregnant with thirst. His sneakers so white, his athleisure perfectly athleisure. I longed to be the turtleneck touching his dainty chin. His hair, perfectly cut, like a high school bully from the ‘80s. In the words of a wise woman (full disclosure: my coworker), “Complex guys, amiright?”
Finally, I couldn’t take it any longer. I had to have him. “Elevator’s taking a while.” The words spilled out of me. “Yup,” he responded. Then he put on his headphones. He said so little, but I could grasp the meaning in that one syllable: “yup.” Do you want me? Yup. Will you love me forever me? Yup. My fantasies were uncontrollable. As the elevator doors sealed us in our love chamber, I knew there was no turning back. I couldn’t wait to tell our grandchildren about our meet-cute, because it truly was so cute.
He has a girlfriend, but details, you know? We make it work. I discovered her by stalking his Instagram (135 weeks back, NBD). He didn’t even tell me. It pains me to picture them rolling around his perfect Bed-Stuy bedchamber, but I've made peace with the fact that I shall always be the other woman. We sneak around her, and it’s thrilling.
Yes. My heart is aflutter recalling our covert moments of aching desire. The time he wasn't by his desk at 11:30 a.m.—he hadn’t told me where he was! Was he sick!? Out of town!? I checked the online staff calendar to see if he had taken the day off, only to see he should’ve been there this very instant—because he had a meeting. Then, suddenly, he strolled in, and from across the room I saw him mouth to his deskmate "dentist appointment." I was so glad he was okay, and then I imagined how clean his teeth smelled.
Then, of course, there was that fateful time I walked up to refill my cup at the water cooler. My fantasies were realized when, to my surprise, he approached the water cooler at the same time. We did the dance of "Go ahead," "No, after you," before I caved and said, simply: "Okay." Then we stood in intense silence for 10 seconds as I refilled my cup. I could tell by the way he raised his eyebrows with a hint of concern that he wanted to tell me something but was afraid. (His vulnerability!) It dawned on me that he wanted to tell me, “Your finger is off the button,” because the water had stopped; in my ecstasy, I’d forgotten to continue pressing the button. That was a pivotal moment in our relationship. I think it really took us to the next level.
He got me through my darkest days. When all I wanted was to stay in bed and sigh thinking about our torrid affair, the thought of him got me dressed and out the door. I wore lipsticks for him hoping that would tell him I wished to kiss his perfect lips. Just like Clueless, I sent myself flowers and chocolates with the hope that he would grow jealous of my suitors. Sometimes I stared at him for hours trying to will him to break up with his girlfriend and run away with me.
I can't wait to spend Valentine's Day together. He’ll be with his girlfriend the whole night, but that’s a minor hiccup. We’ll be together in our hearts. I made a reservation at a fancy restaurant for one but requested two chairs, because he'll be there in spirit. (Not in effigy, though—I already have a shrine at home and two shrines would be crazy and I'm not crazy.) I'll feed the idea of him strawberries and pour champagne into his imaginary mouth. I may or may not be asked to leave this fancy restaurant because I may or may not leave a chair soaked in champagne but WHO CARES!? Love makes you do crazy things.
I should mention that we’ve never spoken, he and I. Our love transcends language. It’s like Carol, filled with glances and sighs. He does his best to ignore me but we both know the truth.
I will cherish our time—definitely not together, just me staring at him—always. Goodbye to Complex, goodbye to this cruel vindictive lust.