lizzie the lobotomized

Your team, and even your department, is small. You don't know anyone with those initials. Do you? In your email, you pull up the department group to scroll through all the names; you're still new, you're probably forgetting a few.

Nothing. Well, it's intra-company, so no harm, no foul. It's not as if you're clicking on a suspicious link.

» Accept.

You wait. The longer you wait, the antsier you get. You flick at your thumbnail, your fingertip catching where the nail polish is peeling up. Little flecks of polish in a tiny pile that you sweep off with a scoop of your hand.

Wrong message maybe?

Sighing, you flip back to your manual to scroll through for specific information when the window suddenly blinks.

» Like your hair today

» Hi, sorry who is this?

» You don't know?

Your stomach flips.

» Sorry, I'm new. I really don't know anyone outside my department.

» Shame. Should socialize more.

What?

» Oh, well…I'll start soon, i'm sure lol. Sorry what department are you in?

» Kinda fun to let you figure it out

You minimize the chat window silently. It feels like holding a snake that suddenly turns its head to look at you.

You message Sasha, asking if she knows anyone with the first initial G, without telling her the rest. She laughs and says you might as well be asking if there're any white guys working in big tech.

For the rest of the day, anyone passing by your little cubicle is a suspect. You are in a busy, central spot of your floor; dozens of people float around every hour, many faces still unknown to you. You constantly receive a spectrum polite smiles, blank smiles, warm hellos, but nobody that stares or lingers. Every single person you interact with, hear about, you're training yourself to look for any matching initials.

Judging by their message, G doesn't want you to deduce it right away. Wants to play a bit, and you don't like it one bit. You delete the message history. It won't prevent them from sending you messages, but it's the only thing that works to keep your focus off it.

Pretend it hasn't happened.

—

A week later, you're deep in a document review, eyes bleary, when the window blinks. Doesn't occur to you that it wouldn't be anyone but your team members.

» Forgot to mention I like your cute little picture

Your eyes slam to the pinned picture on your partition wall — you, your best friends, soaking wet on the dock, arms up and eyes closed. A comfort to look at. No different from other people's pictures of their pets or kids or spouses. Suddenly, it feels as if you blew it up and hung it off the side of the building to flap in the wind and let the city gawk at you. Like a nude got published. You're all in your bathing suit cover-ups, nothing untoward to hang up in the workplace, but you suddenly grab it, the little pushpin ripping out with it. You stuff it in your bag, suddenly noticing that your palms and soles of your feet are sweating.

» Make you nervous?

» I don't really know what to say. I don't know who you are.

» You sure?

What the fuck. You close the chat again, pushing your chair out from your desk, and get up to go talk with Sasha. She asks if you want to tell IT; not yet, not really. HR? Definitely not. You both tool around and discover the chat app doesn't let you block other users, considering it's just a company-wide tool.

"Okay, well. I can try to look up directories, if you want, anyone with a G-name. Find an org chart, but those are constantly fuckin' outdated. Do you think they work on this floor?"

"Sasha, how would I know that," you laugh weakly. You scroll up through the chat history to show her. "There's nothing there that tells me what department they work in. How often they see me. They could be mailroom, or someone's assistant, or…anyone!"

She chews her lip, hip bumped against your desk. "Yeah. Fuck. Well, just ignore them for now. Let me know if you want to escalate it." She gives you very serious eye contact until you nod sincerely. "Or if they do something even weirder. Okay?"

You wander back to your desk.

You work later than usual that day. A company this size and given the field you're in, there are still dozens of people on calls, staring at screens, wrapping up meetings. Makes you feel better, safer.

A maintenance worker is waiting for the elevator when you approach. The sheer breadth of him makes you feel small and insignificant, standing there with your lunch bag and water bottle and backpack like a schoolkid. He's got a big yellow maintenance pushcart with him, and when the doors ding open, you motion for him to go first so you can fit yourself in after. He obliges with a blank nod, and you skirt in behind him.

G for you.

B1 for him.

You're staring unseeingly at the smeared stainless steel reflection of the elevator door, picking at your nail polish, when the lights flicker rapidly in a one-two count, and then the elevator car is shuddering, pulling up short and making your stomach roil.

"What the fuck," you mutter automatically. Eyes flick up to the robotic floor read-out, but that doesn't even seem certain where you are. Between 2nd and 3rd floor?

The lights shudder out again, plunging you both in dark for a few moments. You breathe in sharply until some sort of backup system kicks in, running lights on the ceiling of the elevator turning on. A ceiling fan spinning, thank god.

You turn to the maintenance worker — also thank god, someone who might know what to do exactly besides pressing the HELP button — and his mouth is downturned, unimpressed.

"Do you want—?" You gesture to the panel of buttons. He nods silently. Then, with the big-ass cart filling up the space of nearly 4 people, you have to maneuver off to the side like one of those frustrating tile games so he can bring himself up to where you were stood.

Tucked at the back, his broad back blocks you from seeing what he's pressing. Then there's a tinny, crackling voice. "Maintenance."

"Hey mate, it's me. Stuck in car 2 between 2 and 3. Power go out?"

"Oh, hey, man." You can almost detect relief in the other person's voice, like they're grateful not to hear from a panicking employee instead. "Yeah, brown-out. Car should be good though — lights and fan on?"

"Yeah."

"Weird. 'Kay, hold tight. I'll give J a ring." The crackling noise cuts out.

You stare at his back impolitely. Large shapely muscles bulked under a dark grey short-sleeved canvas shirt, tattoos pouring out over thick biceps and forearms. Workman's belt. Matching grey canvas pants and some of the thickest black boots you've seen. Huge, muscular ass. Tree trunk thighs stretching the canvas tight.

Boots turning backward to face you. Your eyes fly up to his face — solemn dark eyes, healed-wrong nose, and full mouth — breathlessly, guilty.

"Y'alrigh'?"

"Yeah?" You almost cough. "Yeah. Good."

"Might be a bit. Stingy fuckers been delaying calling the elevator techs out since spring."

"Oh." You panic because there's nothing to look at except for him and all he's looking at it is the way you're grabbing helplessly at the straps of your backpack. "Well. At least we've got air." You, ever the optimist.

—

The cart forces awkwardness. When you finally slide to sit down, and he follows suit later, you can't even see one another. Two ends of an L shape of space.

The silence is mortifying for no good reason, shining floodlights on your social insecurities.

You've tucked yourself in the back corner of the car, knees pulled up to your chest, unzipping your backpack quietly like you don't want to disturb the man.

It's been an hour and a half. You've stopped caring about the sweat that's peppered along your hairline, under your arms.. You scrape your hair up and find a claw clip to keep it off your skin.

"Whatcha got?" he asks after you crinkle around in your lunch bag too loudly.

"Oh, I was…I was just about to offer. I have some cold noodle salad left. You allergic to sesame or peanut?"

"Nah, no allergies."

You scrape two portions out, using your emptied containers to divvy them up. Big boy; you serve him a bigger portion. Around the corner from you, he won't know any different. Instead of standing, you scoot forward until you're peeking around. His legs are kicked out as much as they can, but he looks cramped and awkward.

He meets you halfway, arms flexing to grab your offerings; a can of grapefruit seltzer water, chopsticks and cold noodle salad, and a two-bite brownie from the dollar store. His expression, so blank before, looks surprised when he sees it.

His big fingers drag against yours as you weirdly try to place it all in his opened palms.

"Cheers," he says bluntly.

You nod politely and you both retreat to your corners like sweating, sad boxers.

"Oh wait!" You call out brighter than anything else you've said to him. "Ice packs."

A repeat of moving forward and then a hand-off a cool-but-better-than-nothing ice pack. He makes a very small sound when it hits his hands. Scuffled back into your spots again. A deeper groan when he puts the ice pack…wherever. You don't want to imagine where he's placed it.

"You get this downstairs?" It's the only question he's asked you except

At first, you think he means the ice pack.

"Huh? Oh, the salad? No, I made it. Why, is it okay?" Properly a character deficiency for you to seek validation from a random stranger in a stuck elevator.

He slurps the noodles loudly. "S'fuckin' good. Can't figure these things out though." You suspect he means the chopsticks.

You laugh lightly. "Sorry, I don't have a fork."

"Don't say sorry. S'good." The crisp sound of the pop can being cracked open and then a long thirsty guzzle. He must be sweatier than you in that canvas uniform. You imagine his Adam's apple working up and down as he chugs the water. "Ah, what the fuck is that" spat out in a strangled voice.

"What?"

"Your pop's gone off."

"Huh?"

"Tastes old."

Realization. You laugh. "It's just seltzer water. Flavoured. Not really pop."

You see the edge of his steel toed boots move slightly, and then a hand appear around the corner, setting the opened drink down for you. He moves back against his wall. "'m good. Thanks."

Are you opposed to drinking from the same can as a stranger? Yes.

This stranger? You grab the can quickly as if he's going to snatch you, and set it beside you. Look down and see where some of the water's pooled around the open tab. In the utter, humiliating privacy of your corner, you silently sniff the top of the can. Nothing. You have a tiny sip, and then dig into your own noodles, awash with whatever has come over you. A bitch in heat.

You gasp very loudly when the speaker crackles to life.

"Ey, G? You good, man?"

The man — you still don't know his name. He doesn't know yours — awkwardly pushes himself up to stand. "Yeah."

"Sorry for the wait there, brother. Fuckin' shitshow with these fools. Someone had to pull up their goddamn contract to check about OT calls. Anyway, they should be here soon. You guys good?"

"Yeah, all good, mate. Cheers." From this angle, stood up tall, he glances back and sees you tucked up tight, staring up at him. A funny look crosses his face, but you don't know him, can't read him.

When the technicians finally arrive, it doesn't take long for you guys to finally arrive at the 2nd floor, doors sliding open, and you finally on more stable ground. The man chats a little with the techs and you shyly say, "Thank you so much," to…everyone there, and then aim for the stairwell. The cold recirculated office air is a fucking relief on your skin, under your dampened clothing.

There's a door slam in the stairwell, echoing loudly in the chamber as you descend, and heavy boots clomping down, not hurried but not slow. You glance back and up: he's followed you. Didn't stay to chat.

"Walk you out." He says simply, and you mouth oh and you don't really have any arguments for that, so you walk self-consciously ahead of him. Aware that your pants and top are stuck unflatteringly to your skin with probably a pool-shaped band of sweat at the back of your top. "You drive or take public?"

"Uh, drive." Nerves rankling your voice like you didn't just spend hours cooped up in a tighter space than this.

He nods. Laughs short and rough when he sees you heading to the single car in the deserted parking lot. Overnight crews must park elsewhere.

An absurd question out of your mouth — "Do you want a drive home? Or…need? I don't know if you drive or…" You fumble with your car keys, press repeatedly on the fob to open the doors just for something to do with your hands. Your car lights blinks obediently as you approach.

"'m good. Drove." You turn your head, too afraid to look back up at him now, but watching his arm lift to gesture at a secondary parking lot. Some trucks parked there.

He stands, crossing his arms across his bulky chest, as you smile unnaturally.

"Okay, well, thanks, I guess." You laugh uncomfortably. "For keeping your cool. Made me feel a lot better."

"Yeah?" An eyebrow, ripped apart by scar tissue, tugging up by a hair.

"Yeah. A lot, actually." And then immediately, your cheeks feel even hotter, feeling like you've revealed something far too intimate to a man whose drink you swallowed.

"Cute."

You hustle into your car, flinging your shit on the passenger seat, sweating furiously and keys bouncing off the ignition cylinder multiple times until it takes, and waving until you can pull out and far away.