Author's Note: I'm soo sorry! ((sobs)) I got so caught up in attempting to write the 33 chapter that I totally forgot I had this one still. By the way, chapter 33 is being the biggest bitch alive. If there were a personified representation of chapter 33, I'd torture it for months before I slowly skinned it alive and dismembered it. Tis the extent of my hatred for that chapter. I'm receiving a little coaching through it by an online friend and blue-moon-reviewer JakRefyNae (sorry if it's spelled wrong) so hopefully I'll have it finished. Who would have thought a fucking lemon would be so difficult to write?

Voice Box
Part Three
Lunch Break
:Aillen:

I hadn’t mentally prepped myself to walk into the building since my interview with Paul for the internship about five years ago. But I found I couldn’t find the courage to even open my door much less approach my desk and sit down for an eight hour workday. I pressed my forehead against the steering wheel and tried to control my breathing, but it seemed either I was in a surplus of air or a deficit since I couldn’t stop gasping and exhaling right after. Hyperventilation came to mind and then fled just as quickly; it had to be something else because I didn’t have a paper bag to relegate my breathing.

After half an hour of futile attempts at calming myself, I grabbed my briefcase and rushed into the building, pressing against the wall and sliding off down the hallway away from the front desk security guard, who regarded me wearily instead of warily since he was used to my antics by now, and into the first floor bathroom. I acquired the stall closest to the wall and furthest from the door and sat down on the toilet, putting my briefcase up on top of the toilet paper dispenser and pulling my feet up onto the lid with me. I tucked my face down into my knees and sighed.

It was best to go to the downstairs bathroom. The only people who really used it were either visiting relatives of employees on a different floor or the security guard. So it was devoid of any moaning or complaining graffiti, plumbing problems or trailing toilet paper snakes on the ground or lipstick marks on the mirrors from infidelity. I knew at least two of the ten guys on my floor were involved in an affair with one of the interns, all of which happened to be female at the moment, who liked to leave their mark like some sort of symbolic “I was here” that were so common on the high school lunch tables or walls.

In the quietude of the first floor men’s bathroom, I finally regained my composure, checked my watch, washed my face with cold water, and then hit the coffee shop. The woman gave me a frantic smile when I approached, probably having remembered me from yesterday when I had zoned out halfway through my order and stopped talking. It wouldn’t have been so bad, but I had kept my gaze on her, staring at her intently though my vision was inward and I had no idea what I was looking at or that I was even looking at all.

I tried to be a gentleman, apologized for the day before and got my coffee with an espresso shot instead of getting two more coffees before heading upstairs to my cubicle. I made it to lunch without any faults, making phone calls and emailing people information easily. It felt like I was sliding down a long slide coated with oil; an easy, curling slide that went fast and ended in the blink of an eye. It was only during the break that it felt like I was trying to climb back up the slide for a second go.

I ran back down to the coffee shop of the first floor and bought another coffee, then ran back to the elevators and to my cubicle to get out the lunch I had brought with me. I raced to the microwave in the lounge and ripped open the door, checking my watch as I sprinted inside and shoved the container into the microwave. I checked my watch again; twelve minutes until break was over.

“You act as though you’re on a deadline.”

I jumped, almost knocking the microwave off of the table it was on and turned around to see Paul sitting casually in the chair by the table, one ankle crossed over onto his knee, one arm up over the back of the chair and the other supporting his head on the table. I stared for a moment, an eruption of thought and response creating chaos in my head. It was the beep of the microwave that drew me out enough to regain poise.

“Uh, well, lunch break ends soon,” I said, checking my watch as though to prove my point. I noticed Paul check his watch out of the corner of my eye. He had a big, rotund watch with a broad band made of silver. The face of it was an iridescent navy blue with diamond chips on the hands and for the numbers twelve, three, six, and nine. It probably weighed about five pounds and I would have considered it a status symbol if it didn’t look like it rightfully belonged there. Paul, I think, would look too strange in a flannel shirt and jeans. He belonged in spiffy, upscale silk and satin shirts with the clean black slacks with the crease down the front of the legs.

“You’re a stickler for rules and regulations, aren’t you? I’d hate to have you as a manager,” Paul chuckled, returning to his sub that, once again, looked like it was ready to burst it was so stuffed. He still managed to eat it without any of the condiments or the shredded lettuce splatting onto the paper out from the back of the sandwich.

“I just like… structure,” I mumbled, grabbing my container and taking an obligatory seat next to him. I attempted to eat my meatloaf and mashed potatoes in silence, but Paul seemed to be in a conversational mood and squared his body to me, pointing with a limp finger in my direction that might not have been pointing at all but a casual gesture, and swallowed before speaking.

“You know, when I was younger I worked at a restaurant in the kitchen where the chef was an absolute barbarian with the rules. Always had to wear gloves if you were in the kitchen regardless of whether or not you were handling food, even had to wear them while washing dishes, couldn’t eat a thing until lunch break and lunch break was fifteen minutes and no more than that. I quit when he told me I had to measure out the slices of tomatoes so they were all exactly a centimeter thick. Honestly, I think he just wanted me to quit and so he made my life hell.” Paul took another small bite, chewed it thoughtfully, and then swallowed it urgently as a thought came to mind. “Not that I’m saying you’re conniving like that. Is conniving the right word?” He looked at me with a grin that made me think he already knew it was. I nodded dumbly.

“How many jobs have you had?” I asked, just for the sake of talking, and Paul hummed in thought as he ground up another chunk of his sandwich in his mouth.

“About thirteen I’d think,” he stated apathetically and I started choking on my mashed potatoes, leaning over my container and coughing. Paul patted my back until I stopped, but left his hand on my shoulder blade as he laughed at me quietly. “What? Does that surprise you?” I nodded again, still bent over my container as I waited for the sting to die away in my throat.

“I’ve only had three,” I croaked, putting my fork down and rubbing at my eyes that had started to water. He chuckled and rubbed my shoulder in what I forced myself to interpret as reassurance or something like it. Even still, I had a lingering impression I was giving him the benefit of the doubt. “I worked as a gas station cashier, a cashier in a supermarket, and then here as an accountant.”

“Well, some people get fired more often than others. Me, I had my high standards for a job and few places seemed to meet them. My father used to say it’s not good for a fifteen year old boy to have job standards, but I guess it worked out in the end.” He brought the sub to his mouth again, nearly finished, and I picked up the last blob of mashed potatoes and shoved the buttery fluff into my mouth. If Claire made mashed potatoes everyday, I would be hard pressed to complain about it. In fact, when she suggested we go out to eat, I didn’t agree with the same enthusiasm as she did. “You seem more alert today. Sleeping better?” Paul asked and I started to shake my head and then grunted and nodded.

I finished eating in silence and Paul sat drinking his green tea, full of antioxidants he said, silently and slowly. I took a sip of my coffee, which had cooled down during the conversation, and tried not to look nervous. But when Paul flipped his wrist to expose the midnight mask of his watch to the fluorescent lights on the ceiling, my heart jumped into my throat and I sprang from the table and started closing everything up.

“You’re late,” Paul noted quietly, without infliction, and then looked up at me with the same indifferent expression his voice had conveyed. “Well, guess we should both get back to work, huh? Oh, shoot. I meant to talk to you about something. Oh well, better done in private I guess. Do you have time after to stop by my office for a few minutes after you’re done with your work?”

I hesitated, but nodded. I carefully put my Tupperware container back into my briefcase and then grabbed my coffee, heading back towards my cubicle to finish the paperwork and phone calls I still had left to do. Each minute, each second, that passed doubled my dread and I found myself scrounging for work at five o’clock and playing a game of freecell on the computer instead of making the inevitable walk up to Paul’s. I had a bad feeling about the meeting, a horrible, terrible, awful feeling that made me duck nauseously into the bathroom before Paul’s corner office and lean into the toilet in anticipation. But nothing came up.

Grudgingly, I got up and continued to his office, wishing, for once, that I could get sick. It would figure that it wouldn’t happen when I needed it to. So instead of spilling my partially digested lunch and mostly digested breakfast into the top floor bathroom, I was walking into Paul’s office where he sat by the window smoking.

I dropped my briefcase silently down by the couch and stood up straight, shutting the door so it didn’t make any noise. I waited, standing perfectly still and watching him. If he noticed I was there, he made no indication. He just continued to puff on the filter of his cigarette and gaze outside. It was dusk outside, a warm gray light caressing Paul’s flawless face in a sort of glow that accentuated his deep green eyes as they flicked around the sight below him. I snapped out of my reverie and cleared my throat softly, just loud enough for him to realize he had company.

He turned his face to me with what appeared to be some difficultly, like something down below was attracting his intense attention though, with how far up we were, I doubted he could see anything clearly. He smiled when he realized it was me and dropped his cigarette outside, shutting the window as he came away into the center of the office.

“Are you in a hurry?” he asked and I shook my head before I could stop myself. “You’ll probably get hot wearing your jacket, Aillen.” I felt my chest tense as my name rolled off of his tongue in his deep, sonorous voice, and shrugged myself out of it, laying it on the couch. “You can relax. I’m not going to yell at you or anything. You haven’t done anything wrong.” He chuckled comfortably and I smiled, on edge. “I just wanted to talk to you about yesterday.”

My body froze. I felt sweat start to collect under my arms and my stomach gurgled in discomfort, something Paul thankfully didn’t hear. He sat on the edge of his desk like he normally did, smiling his usual business-like smile to me as I stood nervously by the couch. He beckoned me closer and I sat tentatively in the chair.

“Aillen, I know this is personal and please don’t feel forced to answer because I’m your boss. But I wanted to know if you were really going to follow through with your engagement.” Paul looked comfortable on his desk, sitting with one arm supporting his weight as he shifted it to the left of him and gave me a more intent stare. I wondered how he could ask such an intimate question with that poise. He seemed completely unbothered, like he had asked what the weather was like instead of asking me if I was going to marry my fiancée. Something about the way he presented himself made me feel odd. I couldn’t figure out what it was though.

“Why would you ask something like that?” I stuttered and Paul shrugged nonchalantly. “Why wouldn’t I?” He shrugged again and stood, standing in front of me and staring at the wall blankly. I wanted to yell at him that I loved her, the words were forcing their way up my throat and into my mouth, but Paul was my boss and the last thing I wanted to do was lose my control. I felt angry at his arrogance for asking such a question, for thinking I wouldn’t, and intrigued as to why. So instead of defending or asserting myself, I just watched him.

“Well then, I’m sorry to have wasted your time with meaningless inquiries,” Paul said cordially, though through tight lips, and walked to the door to open it for me. I left in a confused daze, looking back once to see him leaning with his arm up against the frame of the door and his other in his pocket, staring at me. I don’t know why, but when I turned away, I was trying hard to suppress a smile.

--

“What do you think about these?” Claire asked, pointing to a silverware set. I glanced away from the crossword to look at them, scrunching up my nose. Claire laughed. “No? How about these then?” she said, flipping to another page. I glanced up at her and shook my head with a smile. “Why not?” she giggled, sliding into my lap and fastening an arm around my shoulders. I smiled up at her and put the paper on the table.

“You’ve been thinking an awful lot about tableware lately and not enough about your soon to be husband. I think I deserve a little more attention than those magazines,” I stated slyly, slipping my hand up her shirt and fastening it onto her shoulder. She giggled again, a quiet one, and slid a single finger down the center of my chest with a smirk. It was all I needed. I carried her off to the bedroom.

Author's Note: Okay! (if fictionpress fucks up my cursor one more time I swear I'm going to do something it will regret...) Anyway, hooray! An update! I can't express to your my sorrow for not having done this earlier. I feel terrible for letting you guys go about two months without an update (It was exactly 56 days because the document for 31 was down to 4 days left before it was automatically deleted). I'm going to seriously start working on the chapter and get it finish hopefully by the middle of February (I'm being realistic for once).

Oh yes. And on a private note, my mother got a facebook and joked about embarrassing me. Her plan totally backfired, muahahahahhahaa! (I ended up having a conversation with both her sisters about the pros of having a vibrator instead of an actual penis attached to an actual man. They were disturbed...)