Arthur dragged himself through another hour of corporate slavery while his monitor emitted a small, mosquito-like whine with every new ticket. The overhead lights buzzed like fruit flies as the dark circles under his eyes grew darker with each passing day. He looked thirty-two at the age of twenty-three.
"Arthur," Brenda said.
'Ah, shit! I'm not going home tonight!' he cursed his luck as he saw her standing in front of his desk.
"Compliance batch?" she followed, bending low in front of him. Her cleavage dipped right into view like a snack, since she always kept one button of her blouse undone.
Brenda, a young thirty-six, was his manager, and the kind of woman who could turn a hallway into a runway and a meeting into a sentencing. Her pencil skirt clung to her thick hips and plush thighs like it was tailored just to test a man's restraint. The white blouse on top was fitted to perfection, hugging the outline of her full, heavy D-cup breasts with every breath. Black-rimmed glasses framed her sharp eyes, and her dark hair was twisted into a tight bun that made her look permanently ready to take charge. She always carried a soft citrus scent—clean, feminine, and teasing.
'Ahh... Why is she— I can't focus... I can see her nipples!' he screamed inwardly, missing whatever she was saying as his attention stayed glued to her pink nipples, visible since she wasn't wearing a bra.
When she bent down and leaned in close to nudge him, that scent washed over him along with the warmth of her body, making it impossible to think about anything.
"It's routing," he said.
'Fuck, I forgot about that!' he cursed again.
"When I say five, I mean five." Her tone could have sanded wood.
"It's 4:58."
She gave him a look over the rims of her glasses. "Then surprise me."
Fuck surprising... the only surprise I could give her is my boner in her fat ass! he thought as he got a massive erection just from looking at her boobs up close.
He nodded, imagining surprising her in ways that would get him fired, arrested, and possibly canonized by a secret sect of office degenerates. "Yes, ma'am."
"I'm not your ma'am," she replied, then strode off—a metronome in heels, her ass swinging sideways with each step.
'Fuck... Look at her walking away... FUCK, LET'S NOT THINK ABOUT THAT!' He lightly slapped himself, trying to kill the thoughts that had just invaded his mind.
The hum of the HVAC and the hiss of the lights turned the office into a zoo for exhausted mammals.
Priya from Accounts massaged her temple with one hand and the day's budget with the other. She wore a wedding ring and the universal expression of a woman who'd been asked to "circle back" too many times. Soft blouse, sharp cheekbones, kindness in the smile she gave him when she caught his glance.
He smiled back and looked away before it turned into anything. He had mastered the art of the respectful two-second look: enough appreciation to be human, not enough to be fired.
The tickets multiplied like bad decisions. He shipped the batch at 5:04. Brenda did not reappear to be surprised. The mosquitos did.
By 7:10, Arthur was the last animal in the habitat. He powered down his computer with the gravity of a man pulling a plug from a hospital wall. The screen blinked; his usefulness went with it.
On his way to the elevator, he passed the glass conference room where the executive wives' charity committee—three women with hair the color of billing cycles and heels that made the carpet obey—were pinning ribbon colors to next quarter. They laughed with the confidence of people whose lives came with backup lives. Arthur tried to look at the floor. The floor had a glass reflection.
At the service corridor, Mrs. Tompkins from Facilities wrung out a mop with the same judgment gods apply to floods. Late forties, early fifties, forearms carved by honest work and a jawline that could cut rope. "You're still here, honey? They paying you for the overwork?"
"They're paying me in character development."
"That don't spend," she said, not unkindly. "Go eat."
"Soon as I remember how," he promised.
The elevator doors closed on the scent of bleach and lemon, then opened to the scent of rain and exhaust. Arthur stepped into the evening, a small fish shaking free of a large, indifferent mouth.
The city had the soft ache of a weekday night: neon buzzing like a tired heartbeat, taxis idling, a bar door opening long enough to let out a bell of laughter and a chord of music. Arthur walked because the bus would be crowded and his apartment would be empty. He walked because forward felt like one of the few directions he could still afford.
He passed a yoga studio as the last class spilled out—calm faces, messy ponytails, leggings like second skins. A woman in her thirties held a mat and a phone, argued in a whisper with someone on the other end, then closed her eyes, breathed in, and let something go. She turned, saw him, offered a small, neutral smile. He filed her under endorphin MILF, potential stress reduction candidate, and kept moving.
A wine bar glowed on the corner. Inside, three women leaned into each other's laughter, bracelets catching light; their silhouettes were curves sponsored by gravity and good tailoring. One had a streak of white in her hair that made Authur's heart pound. He didn't stop. He was a museum spectator—eyes only, hands clasped behind his back.
He crossed by a pharmacy where a woman in a trench coat hefted a bag of groceries like it contained her week. Her mouth pinched as she juggled keys and a call. "No, I said Thursday, Mark." The name sounded like a diagnosis. She cut the call, exhaled through her nose, and rolled her shoulders. Arthur wanted to offer to carry the bag, cook dinner, fix the broken hinge of a life. He settled for making way on the sidewalk.
He kept count of his ridiculous thoughts like other people counted steps.
MILF sightings: 4.
Willpower remaining: low.
Dignity: Don't have.
Before continuing his journey to his apartment he took a left and went to a park to let out his frustration.
The park was mostly dark except for a few strips of light. Trees shifted in the wind like they were talking to each other. He walked through because this was the street he took when he wanted to pretend he was someone else for a bit. By the fountain, a couple made out like they were trying to solve something with their mouths. Somewhere nearby, a dog was yelling at a squirrel.
Arthur stopped under a streetlight that flickered like it was thinking about quitting. He looked up. The sky was mostly black with a few weak stars scattered around, like someone tossed them there and gave up.
He'd been cracking jokes all day just to keep himself running. Now, with no one around, he let himself drop the act.
"Alright," he said to the sky. "I've got a request."
No answer. Of course. The universe was probably the type to send your message back asking for clarification in bullet points.
He lifted his arms like some idiot making a speech to the wind. "Forget honor. Forget love. I want MILFs. Real ones. Bossy, tired, divorced, cheating, married-but-over-it—women who have weight to them. I don't need some fantasy romance. I want thighs that could crack my skull and a to-do list I'll never finish."
He grimaced at himself but kept going. "If this world won't give me that, throw me into one that will."
*****
Wrote this one in a hurry! Upcoming chaps are going to be better!
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