The Assistant Ch. 04

I don’t respond. This guy could be a psychotic stalker and I don’t want to upset him.

He looks at me and says, “I take it you don’t know what I’m talking about, you young thing you. Bear with me for a little while longer, okay?”

I glance around the car in nervousness. “You haven’t answered my question.”

He closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath. “Yes, I did,” he says softly. “I already answered your question, sweetheart. I am not following you. Has it occurred to you that perhaps I’d think that you’re the one following me?” He lets a chuckle that’s almost inaudible. “Is it okay if we talk for a little while? I don’t talk with people much nowadays. I’d like to tell you my life story. I hope you don’t mind.” He pauses theatrically. “I was a family man. I had always dreamed of having a family. And then I had one. I had a beautiful wife named Elsa. Elsa and I were married for four wonderful years. We wanted to have children, but we decided to wait a few more years. We wanted to enjoy our lives together first. My life couldn’t be better.”

“Why are you using the past tense?”

He ignores me and continues: “They say that happiness doesn’t last forever, which is true. Mine didn’t last. My wife died in a car accident.” He shakes his head dispiritedly.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, I mean, it ain’t your fault. Anyway, my life was never the same. A state of intense pain and sorrow befell me. There were times in which I couldn’t breathe. I was suffocating. I couldn’t live without my Elsa. ‘Why live?’ I thought. And that’s when I did it.”

“Did what?”

He sighs precariously and says, “I should probably say almost did it. At exactly two a.m. on a deserted subway platform—with a bottle of whiskey in my hand—I decided to jump toward an oncoming train. It would be quick and painless, for I wanted to get it over with. I wanted to be with Elsa and make the pain go way.”

A chill runs down my spine. “What . . . what stopped you from doing it?” I whisper, not wanting the other passengers to hear me.

He chuckles forlornly. “Until this day, I have no idea what stopped me. Perhaps Elsa stopped me. Or maybe I didn’t want to die. But the grief has carried me throughout the years.” He laughs at my saddened expression. “I’m a lonely man. I always thought that you youngsters hadn't the faintest notion what it's like to feel pain. Real pain. Profound pain. But when I look at you, I realize that ain’t true. For you’re lonely too, ain’t ya?”

I put my face in my hands for a moment. I have felt lonely. I’ve never allowed anyone to get close for fear of getting hurt. Hadn’t Matt said something similar the other day? Something about being lonely and us needing each other? He had been right about that. And to have a complete stranger on a train point this out to me is not only bewildering, it’s downright creepy.

“Don’t worry about it, sweetpea,” he says, looking at me from the corner of his eye. “I thought I’d bring some light into ya. You’ve been in denial. Denial doesn’t change reality, sweetpea. No, siree.”

I look at him. I feel lightheaded when I look at him. “But . . . how do you know?”

“I’ve been lonely for far too long to not recognize it when I see it.”

“How’s it like?”

“How’s what like?”

“A lifetime of loneliness.”

He thinks for a second. “Lonely.” He laughs. “This side of the world—old age, I mean—is even lonelier. Can’t say I wasn’t in the prowl a few years after Elsa died. I had my fair share of ladies during my youth. But none of those women was my Elsa. Female attention didn’t make my loneliness disappear. On the contrary, it was more tangible. Let me tell you . . . What’s your name?”

“Karla.”

“Let me tell you, Karla. I regret not having killed myself. I regret it every single day. She was probably waiting for me with a smile on her face.”

“Your wife?”

“Yes. And I chickened out. Can’t believe it. People who say that suicide is a cowardice act have no fucking idea what they’re talking about. Not going through with it—that’s being a coward!”

I am silent as I digest his words. His bitterness is palpable.

I look at him uneasily. “Look,” I venture, “what do you want from me?”

“I want nothing from you,” he answers earnestly. “I only want to see you come in and out of the train once in a while. I want us to have that kind of separate togetherness. I feel less lonely—”

“I don’t think I can help you feel better.”

“I feel less lonely when you’re around. Please, Karla, allow me to see you on the train. We can make some chit chat. Talk about the weather or something. I am not asking for too much.”

I take a deep breath, shrug and say, “Well, I guess there’s no harm in that.”

The train finally reaches my stop, but before I step out of it, I look at the man and say, “I don’t know your name.”

“You don’t? Forgive me for not introducing myself earlier. My name is Carlos Sanchez.”

I smile. “See you around, Mr. Sanchez.”

Matt is standing at the entrance of my building. He is smoking a cigarette (I had no idea he smoked) and his head is hanging low—avoiding the gaze of people entering and leaving the building. He’s wearing blue jeans, a black dress shirt and his favorite tie with the smiling faces.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Waiting for you.”

“I could have you arrested for this, you know.”

“Arrested? For what? You accused me of sexually harassing you earlier, what have I allegedly done now?” He climbs the stairs after me. “I’m not doing anything wrong. Besides, I know you’re enjoying all of this.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask while unlocking the door to my apartment. Matt forces his way in. “I am not enjoying this. This is a nightmare. I want you to get out of my apartment before I—”

“Before you what?” he asks, challenging me, annoying the shit out of me.

“Before I . . . call the police.”

“Go ahead and call them.”

I sigh in exasperation. “Really, Matt? Aren’t you afraid of a public scandal?”

“Nope,” he replies cynically.

“Huh.” I try to think of a good retort. “You’re really not afraid? I mean, I could sell this information to—oh, gee, I don’t know—a tabloid newspaper? I can just see the headlines now—‘Heartthrob TV Star Stalks His Personal Assistant.’ They’d have a field day with this!”

He’s silent for a moment. Then he smiles and says, “Go ahead and talk to the press. I’ll put myself at your disposal. I could use some cheap publicity. Andrew would be pleased.”

He’s pissing me off and loving it. I don’t know what else to say to him. Desperate, I try another tactic: begging. “Please, go away,” I squeal. “I can’t be with you, Matt. Why can’t you understand that? I’ve had a lousy day. You’ve no idea what just happened to me on the subway. Some old guy told me all these creepy things and . . . Look, just go away! You’re a stranger to me. I hardly even know you, for God’s sake. I mean, I didn’t even know you smoked cigarettes and—”

“I only smoke when I’m nervous.”

I feel the veins around my neck throbbing uncontrollably. I point to the door, but he doesn’t move. “You stubborn asshole.”

He looks hurt. “Karla, why can’t you admit that you want me? Why can’t you admit that you’re enjoying all of this? You love to play games—it’s your modus operandi.” He cups my cheek in his palm and runs his thumb over my bottom lip. I close my eyes. “You said you’d sue me for sexual harassment, but I am not sexually harassing you. You see, Karla, I know that you’re afraid to get close to me, and I don’t blame you. I know I haven’t been very open and honest with you. But that’s beside the point. What’s important is that we want each other. It’s a mutual thing. We need each other, Karla.”

I hate to admit that he’s right. I want him, and perhaps I have enjoyed his persuasiveness. I am appalled at myself for acknowledging this. What would feminists think of me? I never thought I’d sink this low over a man. I push him away.

“What, more games?” he muses.

“I want you to leave me alone.”

He tries to grab me again, but I tug away. “Didn’t you hear what I said? Can’t you just leave me alone?”

“No.”

Rage swifts through me like mounting lava.

“Karla,” he says urgently. “I think that you’re simply irresistible and I’d be damned if I don’t spend the night with you.”

HA!! Ha, ha, ha, ha . . . HA!! The flattery technique! I can’t believe it! He is trying to flatter me! Has he read the book, or is there a One Hundred Ways to Seduce A Woman?

He flings himself around my neck and holds me in a passionate and desperate sort of way. He kisses my neck several times. This feels nice. I tentatively run my hands over his shoulders and chest. I can’t help it—he excites me. And it appears that I excite him too. Through the rough fabric of his jeans, I feel his fully erect cock poking my hip. “On the night of the film screening,” he murmurs into my ear, “you blew me away with that red dress. You should wear red more often.”

I clench my muscles in despair as we continue to kiss. His shallow hot breath warms my insides.

“You were bewitching.”

Bewitching? Good one, Matt.

Again, I find myself getting antsy. A helix of hopelessness is twisting through my body. He has found my weak spot: him. As far as he’s concerned, he could take advantage of me whenever he wants. Well, I can’t allow that to happen. I have to be strong and determined, like Joan of Arc . . . or someone. Yes, Joan of Arc! I have to be like her. I push him away again.

He rolls his eyes. “I am tired of playing games with you,” he says fretfully. “If you honestly don’t want me around, fine. I respect your decision. But out of stubbornness, I can’t allow myself to be defeated. You have ten seconds, and if you don’t change your mind during that time, I promise I’ll never bother you again. Our relation will be strictly professional from then on. Games are fun, but they get old after a while. Ten . . . ”

I don’t move.

“Nine . . . ”

Joan of Arc.

“Eight . . . ”

Joan of Arc, Joan of Arc.

“Seven . . . ”

I’m experiencing a déjà vu.

“Six . . . ”

Ah, I remember. This reminds me of Mike, an ex-boyfriend of mine who shouted a countdown every time he came.

“Five . . . ”

Weird.

“Four . . . ”

Joan of Arc.

“Three . . . ”

Joan of—what’s her name?

“Two . . . ”

Joan of . . . Arc.

“One.” He looks at me expectantly.

I do nothing. I am Joan of Arc.

He sighs in disillusionment and says, “Okay. Like I said, I respect your decision. Goodnight, Karla.” He walks with jerky steps toward the door. God, I love him.

Screw Joan of Arc. “Matt! Wait!” I walk up to him, grab him by his belt buckle and pull him toward the futon. He’s smiling broadly.

“Haven’t you noticed something?” he says.

“What?”

“I’m wearing my magic tie. We’re together because of it. I knew the tie would help. I knew it!”

“Shut up and fuck me,” I say, pushing him onto the bed.

Yes, Matt. You have won.