Don't Date Your Coworkers

The bathroom is where I find comfort lately.

I realized it when I tucked myself into a stall at work, folded myself on top of the seat with no plans to use it, and buried my head in my hands to think. Some might find it odd, I thought, that I like it in here so much. It's the only place where no one will bother me. It's the only place where, if I need to think for a while, no one will ask what I'm doing.

And of course, I'm thinking about him.

He's angry with the world today. Beside me at work, his fingers fly across his computer keyboard. He wants to know more, do more, be respected more, but he won't be, and I don't know how to tell him that. Sometimes he lets me read his emails before he sends them, and I never feel more trusted than when he does that. I glow as my eyes skim the words, and I make minor changes to something I can't imagine sending myself. Today, I offered my eyes for a scorching note to his boss. He shook me off. I wilted.

I wonder why his anger rubs off on me so easily-- why, all of a sudden I find myself loathing the situation around me after his outburst-- and then I realize that I've got my own issues, too, I've just forgotten about them. I don't like my job. My parents won't get off my case. My friends won't listen to me. My anxiety is constantly forming in the pit of my stomach, billowing up my esophagus, and crawling into my skull to take hold of my mood, feelings, fears.

You know. Normal stuff.

To make myself feel better, I revisit our Tuesday. Oh, Tuesday. It comes to me in bursts of warmth and light and I try to hold onto the snippets of images like restless butterflies in my hands.

The highway at midnight. A hill between his house and the road; his arm around my waist as we watch the nighttime traffic go by in perfect silence. His dog sits beside us, eager to go out and chase the cars in the distance.

A perfect dream. Opening my eyes to the darkness of his bedroom with his body pressed against me from behind, and his dog cuddled up in my arms-- almost like a family. Drifting back to sleep but almost not wanting to, because then it will make the night go by faster.

A flash of morning. The sun streaming through a white sheet, which covers us both. A kiss on the neck. Warm, beautiful sex. Something I'll have to savor until I see him again. When will I see him again? I don't know, and the thought presses at me until I'm jolted out of the daydream.

I go to therapy the next day and cry to my doctor about how I can't love him. She shrugs. "Sorry," she says, "You already do." She's right, so I cry some more.

I hide in the bathroom today because I don't know what else to do. His boss has pulled him aside, and what if he gets fired? Will he leave me behind in a stream of anger and doubt? Will I have to pick up the pieces at work until I find a place where I can fit without him? Or maybe he's fine, but he doesn't want to see me anyway?

How, I wonder, legs crossed atop the toilet seat, can I find happiness again?