Melt For You

4

I’m shoveling meat loaf into my mouth when a door slams out in the hallway. Curious to see who’s doing the walk of shame at quarter past five on a Saturday morning, I head to the front door with my plate and peer out the peephole.

There stands the Mountain across the hall, wearing a gray sweatshirt and matching sweatpants on his massive frame. He’s got a pair of earbuds in and is thumbing through his phone, swiping his finger across the screen like he’s searching for something. Music?

Is he going jogging?

No. That would be ridiculous. It’s December in New York City. The sun isn’t even up yet; I’d be surprised if the temperature outside is above freezing. And let’s not forget the boobs and beers of last night. He’s probably nursing a massive hangover, not to mention considerable chafing in his groin area. And he couldn’t have had more than four hours of sleep, tops. He’s probably just going to Starbucks.

He finds whatever he was looking for on his phone, tucks it inside his waistband, and starts to do stretching exercises.

You don’t need to stretch to go get coffee.

The man is stretching in a hallway at quarter past five on a Saturday morning after a long night of debauchery, in preparation for a predawn run in the freezing cold.

Clearly, he’s not human. And he’s crazy. He’s an insane kilt-wearing alien who enjoys dirty card games, big breasts, alcohol, and early-morning jogs around dangerous urban areas.

Fascinated, I watch as he does this whole elaborate routine of bends and flexes, warming up his muscles. By the time he’s done, I’m exhausted. I’m also finished with my meat loaf. Then the Mountain jogs off down the hallway, headed in the opposite direction of the elevators, which means he must be taking the stairs.

We’re on the nineteenth floor.

I wish I had Kellen’s phone number so I could find out who this psychopath is. But Kellen and I are only friendly neighbors, not friends who do things together, so I’m out of luck.

I shower and dress, then kiss Mr. Bingley good-bye and head to work. The morning air on my face is a freezing slap. It’s a half-block walk to the subway station, but it might as well be a half marathon for the way I’m sweating and wheezing when I get there, despite the cold. I’ve got a treadmill in my bedroom I keep promising myself I’m going to use, but its current main purpose is as a clothes hanger.

It’s another half-block walk to the office. I ride the elevator up to the thirty-third floor with Denny, the building’s head maintenance guy, who, for the past ten years has been telling me the worst jokes ever invented.

Invariably, they involve farts.

“An old woman goes to the doctor,” he says, starting in as always with no preamble. “She says to the doctor, ‘I have a really embarrassing problem. You see, I constantly fart, but my farts don’t smell, and they don’t make any noise, so it hasn’t bothered me all these years. I’ve even farted three times since coming into your office.’”

Denny looks at me to make sure I’m listening. I nod solemnly, wondering if perhaps I died years ago in some terrible accident and I’ve been living in purgatory ever since. Honestly, it would explain a lot.

Denny continues. “‘I see,’ says the doctor, and prescribes her some pills. ‘Take these three times a day, and come back for a checkup in a week.’ A week later, the woman storms into the doctor’s office. ‘Doctor, what have you done? Ever since I started taking those pills, my farts have become unbearably smelly! You’ve made it worse!’

“The doctor calmly replies, ‘Now that we’ve cured your sinuses, let’s start working on your hearing.’”

My smile is feeble. “Good one.”

“You think? I told my wife that joke this morning at breakfast, and she didn’t think it was funny.”

Denny has been married for about one hundred years to Phyllis, a woman I’ve never met but for whom I have great sympathy.

“Here’s my floor. Have a great day, Denny.”

“See you around, kiddo,” he calls as the doors open and I step off the elevator.

The reception area is deserted, as is the cubicle field. I take off my coat and scarf, settle into my chair, and have just removed the rubber bands from the manuscript Portia gave me when from the hallway leading to the executive offices a man appears, striding confidently down the hall with a mug in his hand. He’s in navy slacks and a crisp white dress shirt, the collar open and the sleeves rolled halfway up his strong forearms.

My heart stops dead in my chest.

It’s Michael Maddox, CEO of Maddox Publishing, the most perfect man who’s ever lived.

I’ve been in love with him for a decade. Inconveniently, he’s married.

It’s a strange fact that no matter his pace, Michael appears to me to be always moving in slow motion, with a gentle breeze stirring his hair, a golden glow around his head. To call him beautiful would be doing him a disservice. The man is glorious. Godlike. He’s a Michelangelo sculpture brought to life. Black hair, broad shoulders, a pair of blue eyes that could melt steel but mostly melt panties. He does, in fact, bear a striking resemblance to Superman.

And he’s headed right toward me!

My first instinct is to hide. But he’s already seen me, so my desire to throw myself under my desk until he passes will just have to suck it.