Sara was avoiding Rebecca. She wouldn't admit it to anyone else and certainly didn't want to admit it to herself, but it's what she had been doing ever since they had slept together and Rebecca had whispered "I love you," into Sara's ear. She had no idea how to handle the situation, and truly no idea how she felt about Rebecca.
She lay in bed listening to the shower run, hearing the muted, musical tone of Rebecca singing to herself. She was oddly comforted by the sound; it made her feel at home. It was a part of her daily existence, something to which she had become accustomed, but more than that, something that reassured her. She had become used to Rebecca's presence in her life and she realized that all of Rebecca's little quirks and idiosyncrasies, although at times annoying, would be sorely missed if they were no longer a daily part of each others lives.
But regardless of how much she enjoyed her company, Sara had no idea what to do about Rebecca's profession of love. If she could have made herself believe that it was just a casual statement like that made between friends, she could have let it slide. But it was more than that. It had been said in the warm, post-coital glow after they had made love, their bodies wrapped tightly together right here in Sara's bed. It was deeper than mere friendship, more meaningful than casual sex. Rebecca loved her, and she had no idea how to deal with it.
Add to that the dirtiness she felt after her encounter with the unnamed man at Oxford's last night, the gut-churning dread over the potential loss of her job, and the dismay at the deal she had struck with Dave the security guard, and she was a bundle of emotions, none of them good. She stared at the ceiling, willing herself to breathe slowly, trying to stave off what felt like a massive panic attack. What was she going to do?
She had no idea how to handle each individual situation. There were no easy solutions. As far as she could see, there were no solutions at all. She would have to let the dice tumble, see how each scenario played out, and make the best decision possible when the time was right. Right now, she would head to the gym, a habit she had been ignoring for days.
She rolled out of bed and felt the cool air on her bare skin as she pulled clothes out of her dresser. She packed an outfit for work into her gym bag and tossed on a pair of old sweatpants and a jog bra, pulling a sweatshirt two sizes too big on over it. She tied her sneakers, grabbed her duffle bag and purse, and headed out the door while Rebecca was still in the shower..� .� .
Sara had worked so hard at the gym that she felt bodily tired. It happened every time she stopped going for too long; exercises that would normally invigorate her made her muscles sore, and aches appear in places she forgot she had. When she worked out every day it was almost like meditation. Her body got into a groove and she found herself better able to focus on her problems; her mind was clear and free from the clutter of daily life. When she got back into the routine after even a short break from her daily workout, she just felt tired.
She sat in her office, one hand clutching a cup of coffee, the other tapping out a disjointed staccato with a pencil on her blotter pad. She knew she had more calls to make today, but there was only about an hour until Kevin Gibbons, the representative from a potential new client, came for a tour of the production facility. She had been working with him for nine weeks, back and forth with specifications, capabilities, quotes, rejections, and counter offers. They had finally agreed on every detail and he was willing to pay the tooling charges and let her run a batch of parts to verify that they met his rigid quality control standards. As long as his company approved, and if he liked what he saw on the tour, she would seal a deal that would mean an additional three hundred and fifty thousand dollars a month for her company.
Sara had already calculated her commission from the deal, and she was determined to do whatever it took to get Kevin to sign the contract. She was more proud of this particular transaction than any of the hundreds before it. She had worked the entire deal over the phone, never once meeting Kevin Gibbons. She had sealed countless deals with married, overweight, middle-aged buyers and representatives just by wearing short skirts and low-cut blouses to sales meetings. She counted on the fact that the men ogling her across conference room tables would want the see her again and again, and it had always worked for her. This was the first time she had completed the entire matter over the phone using nothing but her knowledge, skills and inborn talent.
She should be going over the details of the contract one more time, but she had already reviewed it more times than was necessary. She could recite costs, specs, and lead times from memory, and didn't want to jumble anything in her mind. She needed to think about something else until Kevin arrived.
She powered on her laptop and the frustrated and enraged look on the chubby guy's face last night flashed through her mind, bringing a smile to her face. That had been fun. She had given back to a man exactly what so many had given her, a temptation, a tease, then nothing once they achieved their own satisfaction. It had been gratifying to see that look on his face, the same thing expressed on his features that she had felt knot her insides so many times before.
Once her laptop was up, she logged in and launched Firefox. Clicking the first link on her Bookmarks toolbar brought up MySpace, and she logged in.
MySpace was filled with the typical friend requests, comments, and messages she'd come to expect. She anticipated the constant emails hitting on her and comments telling her how hot her picture was in the most horrible grammar she had ever read. For the most part she ignored the annoyances and blogged about her escapades, her bitches and gripes, her mundane existence.
Today she took the time to type up a detailed blog describing her encounter the night before. She had started writing about her escapades as if it were a fictional story, including everyone she knew, but changing their names to protect the innocent, or guilty, as the case may be. After thirty-five minutes, she had it down, the important details immortalized in a black serif font for the world to see. She logged off without reading the comments on her last post.
She sat staring at her desktop wallpaper, a black and white photograph of The Doors she had downloaded years before. Jim Morrison was a poet; she admired his words, though not necessarily his life choices. But couldn't many say the same of her? Perhaps her words struck a chord with her readers on MySpace; the comments she received indicated that she touched people literarily in a way few could. But would they approve of her decisions in real life? Seducing a coworker, letting a total stranger screw her in a park, luring a good man into his own back seat and using him, sleeping with her own best friend and ignoring her profession of love, using two of her other friends to fulfill a fantasy regardless of whose feelings got hurt, grudge-fucking an egotistical stranger to get even with all the men who've ever used her...
Her decisions were not always good. In fact, they were often bad, made on the spur of the moment, consequences be damned. But it was her life to live, her decision to make, and as long as she made sure no one got hurt who didn't deserve it, was what she doing wrong? If it only hurt her, wasn't that her choice to make?