"Anyways, shhh, the movie is starting!" I hush him, pulling away from his embrace and crossing my legs.
The movie is long, drawn out, and quite frankly bad. I frequently have to tell White to put away his phone and, after the fifth time doing it, I moved several seats away so as to not be seen with him. I left the popcorn with him, as well as his preferred drink and a few gummies. I wasn't about to starve him for his crimes against cinema, but I did wish ill upon him.
"You really have no manners," I came back to sit beside him as the credits begin
"You're fuckin' neurotic," he responds in a tired, defeated tone.
I flinch. The entire world comes to a standstill for a moment. My eyes widen a bit and I quickly stuff my belongings into my bag, biting back tears. I'm not sure why such a simple insult hit so close to home, but I didn't want to stick around and sort through my feelings in front of someone else like an idiot.
"I'm sorry," I mumble weakly. "I'm going to head home now, bye."
I'm in full panic-mode, fully ready to start bawling. In order to avoid bumping into him again outside I'm going to beeline for the women's restroom and get it out of my system as quietly and efficiently as I can before risking public spaces.
He says something I can't quite understand and grabs the edge of my bag as I turn to leave, but I yank it free from his grip and dart off. The display must look ridiculous to the few onlookers in the room, which only adds to my paranoia.
I brush past a janitor on my way to hide in the restroom, and though I try to apologize profusely, my chest feels tight. When I get into a stall I let it out, clumping the hair at my scalp and sobbing into my backpack which sits on my legs.
Why am I only a human being when I'm working?
Why is it that when I'm out of my office, I struggle to exist?
My phone buzzes and I peek at the screen, hoping for it to be something work related that I can distract myself with. Instead, it's White.
Sorry.
Didn't mean to upset you.
Let's get dinner.
I can fix this.
I bite my lip, struggling to hold back an even greater flood of tears. I don't want dinner. I don't want to fix things. I want to curl up under the covers and fall asleep and wake up and go to work and feel normal again.
I feel so childish. How am I supposed to respond to him? I wait a few minutes, then decide to try my tears and get some fresh air. When I exit the restroom, I'm startled by a pair of arms wrapping around my waist from behind.
"Gotcha~" The familiar voice speaks out.
Have I ever been hugged before? I hesitate, trying to recall if there's ever been a time. Then I wonder if this counts as indecent public affection. But, if parents sometimes do it to their children, and friends do it, then it's safe, right? Regardless, it feels nice. I find myself embracing the warmth and tearing up again for some reason.
"I'm sorry~" He coos, rubbing his head against mine. "Forgive me, alright? I didn't know a small little comment like that would set you off so bad." His words have an edge to them, but his soft grip on me somehow eases all my worries. Is that what I've needed? Just a hug? Am I that deprived?
When he attempts to make eye contact I attempt to hide my face, which prompts him to let go for a brief moment to reposition us. He presses his chest into mine, holding my head close with his hand and, using the excuse of someone walking by, presses my back into the wall so I'm sandwiched. I can't believe it, but I reciprocate. My hands tighten into his clothes and for the first time I notice he's wearing his usual work clothes, just without a jacket or tie. He's also wearing glasses, which catches me off guard. Had he always been wearing those? I was so engrossed in being at the theater, and on time, I hadn't taken the time to properly acknowledge the man I came here to spend time with.
"Look at how pent up you are," he chuckles. "Does Daddy never let you off the leash? The girls never take you for a night out on the town?"
He's mocking me while consoling me. I wonder if this is just the only way he knows how to communicate, at this point. When I finally make eye contact, his expression is surprisingly soft. "So cute. You're like a little doll," he continues. "Fuck it, let's go get some drinks in you and you can tell me what's got you so worked up," he decides.
"What–? Don't make it sound like you're doing me some sort of favor here," I attempt to correct this arrogant man. "And I can't drink, I drove here," I remind him. Yet, he's already got me swept along into his car and on the way to a bar.
The interior is striking, luxurious. It's a current model of a luxury car brand that only someone who really wants to make a statement would consider driving. Most of the people Papa works with drive regular reliable models you'd see on every street, despite being among some of the richest folks out there. I wasn't personally familiar with the types to flaunt their wealth so readily, but I was naturally put off by them. WHITEOUT's entire branding was luxurious and clean, built to appeal to young investors and the recently rich who had no idea what to spend their money on.
He turns the center console on, playing with settings and showing off the features of his car as I nervously watch the road for him. It's only a short drive but I feel like I'm receiving a full sales pitch right now, complete with a massage chair.
"Mr. White," I look over at him nervously, "I think you should watch the road…"
"No need to be so formal with me, Vinny," he smiles back at me, disregarding my plea to drive safely. "Call me Ledge, I insist. Or, maybe even–, hm, no, you're not quite there yet."
My head falls to a tilt as I ponder on the meaning of his words. When he notices my confused expression, his hand reaches out to ruffle my hair as if he's an older brother.
"You're too touchy!" I scold him, pushing his hand away and fixing my hair desperately. "Seriously, all you do is touch and hug and taunt. How do you even have friends?" I ask a question that immediately causes guilt to rise in my stomach. Though, to my surprise, he seems entirely unbothered.
In fact, he positions himself upright in his seat, tapping the steering well as if preparing papers for a big speech. I eye him carefully, waiting eagerly to hear how his behavior can be possible in a field like ours.
"People like to feel like they know someone, Vinny. People like to feel like they're the only one in the room with you at any given moment. They want your full attention, your full trust. They might not know it, but they want full trust in you as well. They want to believe in something greater, someone greater, and that they are becoming greater by being in your mere presence."
"Your entire lifestyle is based on a cult of personality," I furrow my brow.
"And it works!" He declares with a confident laugh.
"It works," I agree.
He pauses, looking back at me for just a moment with a quizzical expression. When I meet his eyes he smiles with a soft pride.
"That's right."