Sometimes I feel like it's best if I hadn't known you. At the very least, my life would have been much, much more simple. I could have gotten married, started a family, died nameless like the billions of other people who came before me.
Maybe that sounds boring for some people, but that's what I truly believed I wanted back then…
But then you pried your way into my life, and I knew immediately that I couldn't step away from you.
I felt my foot slip from under me as I walked down the freshly wet pavement, the drizzling rain still stippling onto my back. Managing barely to steady myself, I hissed as I felt a sting of pain come shooting up my leg. "Figures…" I groaned, clicking my tongue as I bent down to examine my ankle.
Should have worn better shoes.
Sighing, I took the shoe into my hand and turned it over a few times. The heel flopping over uselessly, dangling in the air apart from the sole.
Well...I guess it doesn't matter now, the heel looks busted.
Looking around, I surveyed the area I was in for a place to sit before spotting a dry bench underneath a corner store canopy. I hurriedly hopped my way over to it, shoe in hand before slumping onto the uncomfortable metal, placing both my briefcase and my shoe next to me. I sat there for a second, absently gazing out into the empty street, just hoping that the rain would stop for once.
There was no one around at this time, why would there be? Yet the faint sound of cars could be heard from so far off in the distance. All around me, gray and brown buildings lined the skyline, blocking the view of the horizon. At my feet, litter is left thrown inches away from the trash can. Cigarette buts peppered the ground, pocked like a ginger's face.
I could feel my face contort in disgust as I sat there, paralyzed by these intrusive thoughts.
New York City is so ugly.
Picking up my shoe, I stuck my finger through where the heel had detached itself. I only had one other pair, which were sneakers. I sighed again.
How many times a day do I sigh?
How many times a day is normal?
Although this part of the city was relatively quiet now, I could hear voices coming from above me. There were definitely more than a few, young and old. I glanced in the direction of the voices, only to be staring up at the bottom of the canopy.
I honestly don't know what else I expected.
They must have had their window open, I could hear a few of them quite clearly. Quietly, I listened to them. They appeared to be speaking in another language, but what it was, I wasn't sure.
Spanish?
Portuguese?
One of those would be my guess. But it didn't matter, what was being said was none of my business.
Leaning back on the bench, I pushed the back of my head onto the cool glass of the window behind me and listened. They were laughing, yelling. I wondered for a second if their neighbors hated how loud they were being. I glimpsed behind me into the dark, empty store. Considering the fact they lived directly above it...
"They must own this place…" I said out loud to myself.
Must be fun.
I closed my eyes for a second, feeling the cold air touch my skin. Through the voices, through the sound of cars, I could hear the faint buzzing of the street lights coming from either side of me, and found it strangely relaxing. I was exhausted, and could feel my head bob slightly to the left as I was getting comfortable.
"Are you ok?"
A voice snapped me back to reality.
I scrambled to sit up, my eyes pinballing back and forth quickly, but it only took a second to find who the voice belonged to.
A tall man stood just to the right of me, directly under the light of the street lamp.
He wore a full suit, far nicer than my own. Though I wasn't sure about the brand.
In his right hand, he carried what appeared to be takeout, in his left, a briefcase.
I swallowed the saliva gathering in my mouth, as my hand inched towards my own briefcase.
Though he didn't appear to be the kind of person who would be after money, something still didn't feel right
I've always been weary of people, a side effect of not having grown up in the city.
But this could have also been due to the fact that I couldn't properly see his face, or perhaps the overall eeriness of the situation.
The way the light fell on him cast only shadows on his features, from where I was sitting there was no way for me to see what he looked like. A few awkward seconds rolled by as he stood there, before I realized that he had been waiting for my response.
"I'm alright, yeah." I blurted out, admittedly kind of curtly.
He stepped closer, the light from behind him gliding past, as though it was the world that were moving for him.
"That's good, I thought you had passed out drunk or something." The man said, and I could hear him laugh slightly. I paused at his response, attempting to justify his reasoning.
I'm out here, sleeping on a bench in a full suit.
I glanced down.
And I'm wearing one shoe.
And then it hit me. I was the weird one in this situation.
I felt immediately wide awake and scrambled to put my broken shoe back on.
"I-..." I sputtered out, my brain trying to come up with a rational way to explain that I wasn't in fact a gross drunkard. "I was just resting my eyes…. I had a long day." I finally managed to say.
"What time do you work in the morning?" He asked, coolly. Completely unphased by my twitchiness.
I paused, before answering; "Usually around seven."
"You're just getting out now?" He asked, almost immediately.
A bit taken aback, I nodded. But a few seconds of silence went by in return.
When he didn't say anything, I figured it was because he couldn't see me in the dark, so I answered aloud.
"Yeah."
Still no answer.
I began to feel the tension from before well back up. The longer the silence, the more I regretted being polite to this man. But I couldn't bring myself to dismiss the conversation completely, whether out of social obligation or something else.
"Where do you work?" He asked suddenly, easing some of my discomfort through the broken silence.
"Oh, um." I started, reaching into my pocket for my wallet to produce a business card. I dug for a few seconds before realizing something.
Do I really want to take my wallet out in front of this guy?
He seems ok, but do I really want to chance it?
I stopped digging, opting instead to reply verbally.
"SR1 Medical." I stated, blandly.
Without saying a word, the man stepped closer to me, swapping the briefcase he was holding into his other hand and pulling his wallet out from his jacket pocket. As he got closer, his features became a bit more clear, but still his face was unreadable. He fished in his wallet for a split second before sliding a business card out from the leather, using two fingers to extend it in my direction.
When he finally stepped in front of me, without standing, I extended my arm out and gripped the piece of paper in between my thumb and index finger and pulled.
But he didn't let go.
Confused, I looked up at his face. And I could see his features much more clearly now.
He looked normal, respectfully handsome even, but normal in every respect.
So why do I feel so uneasy?
His eyes were bearing into mine, I couldn't help but wonder if he was attempting to make eye contact this whole time, but I just couldn't see his face before.
"Before I show you mine, can I ask; what position are you in?" He asked, and for the first time, I could see his lips moving. The first thing I noticed was that his face moved awkwardly. He hardly moved his lips to speak, but his voice was commanding and calm.
Why do you care?
I just want to go home, leave me alone.
Mind your own goddamn business.
Is what I wanted to say.
"I'm an office assistant." I muster out.
He nods slowly, then I feel his grip release on the business card, which I realized I was still holding, but loosely. Not expecting him to suddenly release, the business card fluttered to the ground silently. The both of us stared down at it for what felt like a full minute, unsure about who out of the two of us should be the one to pick it up.
There's no way I'm showing this guy the back of my head.
Before I could look back at him, he had already leaned down and retrieved the business card between my feet. As he went to stand back up, his head tilted up towards me, his face almost directly in front of mine as he did so.
Jesus, don't you think you're too close, dude?
Standing straight, he smiled and offered me the card again, which I reluctantly took from him. I brought it closer to my face to read it in the dim light, and as I did so, I felt the hairs on my neck stand up.
On the business card was a name and logo that I quickly recognized. I snapped my head up again to look at him, suddenly feeling overwhelming shame and embarrassment.
"What's your name?" He asked before I could say anything or offer up any apology.
"Norman…Carter." I let out, timidly, shrinking into myself.
He stood there motionless for a short while, still smiling. His gaze was intense, and I could feel a weight being brought down on me from god knows where. Struggling to keep eye contact, I let my eyes wander from his, looking for anything else to captivate my attention. I only looked back when I heard the faint sound of a plastic bag being crumpled.
I glanced at his hand, where the sound had come from, which was now in a fist.
"I apologize... President Heath." I managed to finally say.
Hearing this, he shifted a bit, leaning himself on one leg.
"For what?" he asked.
For thinking you were some sort of creep.
For mentally telling you to fuck off.
"For being informal with you." I replied instead, dismissing my earlier thoughts.
He laughed a bit through his nose, before walking around to my side and sitting himself next to me on the bench.
"When were you informal?"
"I…" I stammered, struggling to admit my fault.
I purposely hid my business card from you.
I dropped your business card and had you pick it up, I thought.
"If I were you I'd be cautious of strangers on the street, too." He said calmly before reaching into the plastic bag he was holding, producing a box of cigarettes. "Don't think I'll hold this against you, Mr. Carter."
Sifting one from the package, he dug into his coat jacket and pulled a lighter from it.
Sticking a cigarette in his mouth, he continued. "You never know what other people are thinking, after all."
I nodded slowly in agreement.
"Do you smoke?" He asked.
"No sir, I don't."
"You can call me Simon, you know." He said gently, wrapping an arm around the back of the bench.
I just nodded.
"Could I also call you Norman?"
I nod.
I wasn't looking at him, but I could hear him exhale deeply, then take a few strikes at his lighter.
The light from the flame briefly and dimly illuminated the small area we were in.
"Norman." I hear him say quietly.
Looking up at him, I expected him to continue his thought, or ask me a question. Instead, he just puffed at his cigarette.
We sat in silence for a long time, then after a few minutes, he flicked his cigarette away from him. It falling gently to the floor with an almost inaudible 'tip."
Unnerved by the prolonged silence that hung between us, I shifted slightly on the cold metal bench. Simon's arm draped casually along the backrest behind me, his presence suddenly imposing despite his earlier geniality.
He leaned closer, his cologne overpowering the smell of cigarette smoke. His face was the picture of friendly concern, but something about it made my skin crawl.
"Tell me, Norman," Simon began, his voice cutting through the thick air like a knife, "What keeps you at the office so late?"
I swallowed hard.
"Just trying to stay on top of my work," I managed to reply, my words sounding unconvincing. "Lots of deadlines coming up."
Simon hummed thoughtfully. "I can certainly relate to that. The demands of the corporate world can be quite taxing."
Trying to be polite and maintain the conversation, I asked, "Is that why you're out so late too, sir?"
He paused, studying me intently. I fought the urge to fidget under his unwavering gaze.
But Simon didn't respond. He just stood there, smiling that same pleasant smile, his eyes fixed on me. The silence stretched on, becoming increasingly uncomfortable.
Did I offend him?
Was that too personal? Too presumptuous?
"You know, Norman," he continued finally, "It's getting late. Why don't I give you a ride home? It's the least I can do for a dedicated employee."
His offer seemed genuine, but something about it made me uneasy. "Oh, that's very kind, but I wouldn't want to trouble you. I can call a cab."
Simon's expression settled into a steady smile. He waved his hand dismissively. "Please, I insist. It's no trouble at all."
Before I could protest further, he stood, stretching his arms above his head. Then, unexpectedly, he extended his hand to me. "Shall we?"
I hesitated for a moment, then took his offered hand. His grip was firm, almost too firm, as he pulled me to my feet. But when I tried to let go, his fingers tightened ever so slightly, holding on for a beat longer than necessary.
A jolt of unease shot through me. I tugged gently, trying to free my hand without seeming rude.
Just as I was about to say something, he released his grip and let out a short laugh. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said, his tone light, "Sometimes I don't know my own strength. I hope I didn't startle you."
I forced a weak laugh, flexing my fingers discreetly at my side. "No, not at all."
Was he just testing my handshake grip?
"Well then," he said, clapping his hands together with a sound that seemed too loud in the quiet night. "Shall we get you home? My car's just around the corner."
As we began walking, Simon placed a hand on my shoulder, guiding me. I tried to shake off my unease. After all, this was the company president – charming, successful, admired by all.
So why the hell am I so jumpy?
As we walked towards Simon's car, I ended up struggling to maintain my balance, my broken shoe making each step awkward and uneven. I tried to hide my discomfort, I didn't want to draw attention to my predicament.
Suddenly, Simon stopped and turned to me, a wide smile on his face. "Norman, It seems you're having some difficulty. Would you like me to carry you to the car?"
I blinked.
Is he serious?
My mind went blank, unable to process the idea of the company president offering to carry me.
Before I could stammer out a response, Simon let out a short laugh. "I'm joking, of course. But your shoe does seem to be giving you trouble."
His eyes bore into mine and I forced a weak chuckle, trying to play along with his odd humor.
"Oh, right. Yes, just a minor mishap. Nothing to worry about, sir."
Simon's smile never wavered, but there was something in his gaze that made me feel like I was being evaluated.
"Well, we can't have our employees limping around, can we? Tell you what, why don't we stop by a shop tomorrow? I'd be happy to buy you a new pair."
The offer caught me off guard.
Why is he offering to buy me shoes? Is this normal behavior for a company president?
"Oh, that's very kind of you, sir," I said, forcing a polite smile, "but I couldn't possibly accept. I actually have another pair at home."
The lie slipped out easily, even as I pictured the bottle of superglue sitting on my kitchen counter.
Simon's eyes narrowed slightly. "Are you sure? It's no trouble at all."
I nodded, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. "I'm sure, thank you. I appreciate the offer, though."
We turned a corner, and I saw a sleek black car parked under a streetlight. Simon removed his hand from my shoulder to fish out his keys.
The car was a sleek, expensive-looking model that probably cost more than my yearly salary. To my surprise, Simon stepped ahead and opened the passenger door for me.
"After you," he said, gesturing for me to get in.
What the hell…
I hesitated for a split second. Every instinct told me to politely decline, to say I'd call a cab instead. But that would be rude, wouldn't it? He's just being nice. Right?
The only times I'd seen this were chauffeurs opening limo doors or men doing it for their girlfriends. Neither scenario fit our situation.
"Thank you," I mumbled, slipping into the plush leather seat, immediately feeling guilty as I realized I was still damp from the rain. Water droplets darkened the pristine interior.
Simon slid into the driver's seat parallel to me and started the car.
"I apologize for the mess," I mumbled.
Simon waved his hand dismissively, the gesture so fluid it looked rehearsed. "Think nothing of it. But if it's bothering you, I have a spare shirt in my gym bag in the back if you'd like to change."
His offer caught me off guard again. "Oh, no thank you, sir. I appreciate it, but I'll just change when I get home. It's not far."
Simon simply nodded in acquiesce.
As we pulled away from the curb, I found myself second-guessing my instinctive wariness. Here was the company president, offering me a ride, a new shirt, even new shoes earlier. He was being kind, wasn't he?
And yet... something still felt off.
Stop.
You're just being paranoid.
You're so socially inept you can't even accept kindness without overthinking it.
As we drove through the dimly lit streets, an uncomfortable silence settled over the car. I found myself fidgeting with the hem of my jacket, desperate for something to occupy my hands.
"So, uh, how long have you been with the company, sir?" I ventured, trying to break the tension.
President Heath's eyes remained fixed on the road, his hands at a perfect ten and two on the steering wheel. The silence stretched on for so long that I began to wonder if he'd heard me at all.
Just as I was about to repeat myself, he spoke.
"The weather's been quite unpredictable lately, hasn't it?"
I blinked, thrown by the non sequitur. "Oh, um, yes. I suppose it has."
With that, we lapsed back into silence. The soft hum of the engine and the occasional click of the turn signal only served to amplify the awkwardness.
At a red light, I felt a prickle on the back of my neck. I instinctively turned my head, risking a glance at President Heath, but his gaze seemed focused straight ahead.
Don't think about it.
Just don't think about it. You're overthinking, like you always do.
Just get through this car ride and we'll be home free.
I've worked at this company for five years and I've never once met this man. After this, the odds of me running into him again are slim to none.
As we waited for the light to change, I found myself staring at my reflection in the passenger window, using it to surreptitiously watch President Heath. For a split second, I could have sworn I saw his eyes flick towards me, but when I looked directly at him, he was as still as a statue.
The light turned green, and we moved on. I tried to relax, but my muscles remained tense, coiled like springs.
"So-uh…I noticed the new security measures in the lobby," I said, attempting once more to spark a conversation. "Is that part of a company-wide upgrade?"
Like before, President Heath didn't respond right away. His face remained impassive, almost mask-like in its stillness. After a tense beat, he finally spoke up.
"You know, Norman, I've been thinking about the Thompson account. How is your department faring?"
Wait, what? Did he not hear my question? Or is he deliberately ignoring it?
"I, uh... I'm not really involved with the Thompson account, sir," I stammered, trying to regain my footing in the conversation.
"Of course, of course," Simon said, nodding in apparent agreement.
We stopped at another red light and I shifted in my seat, the damp clothes sticking to my skin serving as an uncomfortable reminder of how disheveled I must look. Self-consciously, I ran a hand through my wet hair.
The movement caused Simon's eyes to flick to me before returning to the road. I couldn't read his expression in the brief glance, but something about it made my skin crawl.
The rest of the drive passed in silence, broken only by the occasional, stilted attempt at small talk on my part. With each passing minute, the car had felt smaller, more confining.
By the time we pulled up to my apartment building, my nerves were frayed. As much as I had dreaded the awkward conversation, the silence had been infinitely worse.
"Well, this is me," I said awkwardly.
I reached for the door handle, eager to escape the confines of the vehicle and the weight of Simon's presence. But before I could make my exit, Simon spoke.
"Would you like me to walk you up?" he suddenly asked, "You never know what kind of creeps are around at this hour."
I chuckled awkwardly, trying to deflect his concern. "I appreciate the thought, Mr. Heath, but I'm a grown man and I don't really have any money. I don't think I'm much of a target for creeps."
Simon's smile faltered, and there was a glint in his eye that made me pause. "That doesn't matter, it just takes being in the wrong place at the right time. Besides, I'd feel a lot better knowing my employee was safe in their home."
I shifted in my seat, suddenly feeling trapped. I knew I should accept his offer, if only to be polite. But something in me rebelled at the thought of him seeing where I lived.
"Really, it's fine," I said, perhaps a bit too quickly. "It's just a quick walk to the door. But… thank you for the ride, Mr. Heath."
He stared at me for a long moment. Then, finally, the same easy smile returned to his face and he nodded. "Of course. Have a good night, Norman."
As I fumbled with the door handle, I couldn't help but feel like I was escaping rather than simply leaving.
I forced a tight smile, muttering a quick 'goodnight' before I practically lept from the car. I didn't dare look back. I hurried into my building, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up until I was safely in the lobby.
I was just tired, reading into things. Simon was just being a nice boss, offering a ride to an employee in need.
Right?
Right, yeah.
I jabbed the elevator button, tapping my foot as I willed it to arrive faster. I needed a hot shower and some sleep. Surely things would seem clearer, more normal, in the light of day.
The elevator dinged and I stepped inside, watching the doors close on the deserted lobby.
It wasn't until I was inside my apartment, the deadbolt securely latched, that I let out the breath I'd been holding. I leaned against the door, closing my eyes and trying to calm my racing heart.
I went through the motions of my evening routine - hanging up my coat, putting away my shoes, heating up a frozen meal - but I couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something wasn't quite right.
It wasn't until I was seated at my small kitchen table, poking at the rubbery pasta, that it hit me.
Had I told president Heath where I live?
I froze, my fork halfway to my mouth. I tried to recall our conversation in the car.
Had I mentioned my address? Given him directions?
No, no I definitely didn't.
Did I?
…
I can't remember.
My mind was a blur, the events of the evening jumbled and hazy in my exhaustion. I couldn't remember the specifics of what I'd said, what information I might have let slip.
I shook my head, trying to dismiss my unease. I must have told him at some point. Maybe when I first got in the car, or during one of the lulls in conversation.
After all, how else would he have known where to go?
I forced myself to take a bite of the tasteless meal, chewing mechanically as I tried to convince myself that everything was fine.
Simon was just being a good boss, a considerate mentor. His concern for my safety was a bit unorthodox, perhaps, but hardly nefarious.
And if I couldn't remember telling him my address, well, that was just a symptom of my overworked, under-rested state.