The Job is Hers

"Is this seat taken?" she asks. I glance up from the book I am reading ready to dismiss out of hand. But the smile on her face and the twinkle in her eye stops me. Luscious, the young lady is, but more than that, there was someone home behind those beautiful dark almond eyes.

She doesn't give me time to answer; which is a good thing since my mouth has gone as dry as a desert wind, before sliding her shapely form into the seat next to mine just as the train rumbles its way out of the station. The fragrance pulsing off of her body is spicy and exotic...something an Indian princess would wear next to her skin. I am wrapped in a cloud of fragrance, her scent inviting my mind to wonder what it would be like to kiss the nape of her chignon exposed neck. A thought as disturbing as the sudden vibration on my elbow.

I glance at her, arching an eyebrow, as she is sliding delicate French manicured fingertips into the breast pocket of her form fitting blazer. She removes a tiny phone from her pocket. "Sorry," she smiles, turning away on the seat as much as she can to answer her call.

While she is murmuring incomprehensible responses into her phone, I attempt to turn my attention back to the book I was reading, only to find that my concentration has been shattered. Instead of following the words on the pages before me, my mind has shifted entirely to her and is now focused on trying to follow her words. Her voice is rich and melodious. Her skin is golden; glowing in incandescent invitation and radiating warmth in the early morning light. She seems a flower, kissed by the morning sun, and magically transported aboard the midtown train. The physical attraction I feel for her is something that I haven't felt in years. Not since I married my husband. Maybe not since college. But now here I am, on the train of all places, and I feel an attraction so keen for this woman that I can feel my body responding to her presence.

The next station is announced over the P.A. system, and I am relieved. Only two more stops to go before I can get off this ride. Only two more stops to control the urge to touch her. To lean in closer and smell her. To kiss her. 'What the hell is wrong with me' I wonder, 'I don't even know this woman.' And it comes right down to that, doesn't it? I don't know her, not even her name, so my response to her is purely physical. It is nothing more than an appreciation for her unmistakable beauty. With that realization, I am once again able to focus on the words on the page.

I started taking the train last year when my car broke down. The shop had to order the parts from the manufacturer to fix it, and I was without transportation for almost a month. Since Matthew works on the other side of town, we either would have had to leave home at the crack of dawn or I had to learn to take the train. Since I am not a morning person, I opted for the train in order to get that extra hour of sleep.

After about a week, I realized that I rather liked it. Sure there was the hustle and bustle of all of those people, but if you shut them out, it was like having free time. I learned that I could read all of those books I never had time to read if I took the train to and from work, plus I didn't have to fight the morning traffic or get pissed off when I found someone parked in my spot. The money I save on gas is just an added bonus, extra money for shoes. Matt still complains about how much I spend on that though, which of course I find uproariously funny. It is not as if we are poor, but men will be men, and will never understand our fascination with footwear; no matter how often we try to explain it.

Before I know it, my station is announced and I begin to gather my things together. "Oh, are you getting off here too?" she asks.

'You've got to be kidding me,' I think to myself, but I answer her as politely as I can. "Yes, I am. Why, is there something I can help you with?" I ask her, meeting her gaze and smiling slightly.

"Well, I was just wondering if you could tell me...once I leave the station, do I turn right or left to get to Century Towers?"

I feel my eyebrows draw down a bit at the center. My building. She must be new, because one does not easily forget a woman this stunning and if I had seen her before I would have remembered. She is waiting for my response, looking rather expectant, and I suppose she thinks that I am thinking about my response. Having no way of knowing that I could get to Century Towers in my sleep from the train station, she has mistaken my frown for concentration and not for the what the hell it truly is.

"Umm, you turn right," I finally say, standing. She follows suit, and I am again graced with the sight of her lithe body in its mini-skirted business suit. Swallowing hard as I avert my eyes I say again, "Turn right, and it is about a block and a half over."

"Thanks," she says smiling and rushing off. "Have a nice day," she says over her shoulder, before I have a chance to tell her that I am going that way myself.

As I make my way off the train I have a sudden, chilling thought. My assistant Karen's maternity leave starts this morning. But no, fate could not be so unkind, I think to myself as I imagine what it would be like to work so closely with a woman that lovely. Karen is a nice woman, but she's plain. And she's boring. And she doesn't smell like anything. Not to say that she smells badly, because she doesn't. I could never tolerate that. She just never smells like anything more than fabric softener and soap. But she's not a distraction. She was perfect for the job. Ms. Indian Princess, as I'd dubbed her in my head, would be distraction of gargantuan proportions. Not to mention the fact that all anyone would have to do was look at me looking at her to know. It was tantamount to opening my closet door at work.

I laugh a little to myself at that thought. I've always thought that being gay is easier than being bi. I could be wrong. But still, when you're gay, you come out once and that's it. Over and done with. Whoever is okay with it is okay with it, whoever is not is out of your life, and that is the end of it. Not to say that losing people you love over something like that isn't painful. It's just that it is only done once, and then you get to live out and proud. When you're bisexual, you have to come out everyfreakingtime you meet someone new. And then there are the arguments about being confused. I decided a long time ago that the work place was not the place to have these discussions. You never know what kind of response you're going to get, and I prefer to keep my private life private.

The rich aroma of brewing coffee alerts me to my arrival at my pre-office destination. I open the door to my favorite café, and at once feel my eyes closing as I inhale deeply. I've never been able to decide what I like more, the smell or the taste of freshly brewed coffee.

"Good morning, Ms. Beaumont," said Mitch, the owner of Blue Mountain Coffee, in his rich southern drawl.

"Morning, Mitch," I smile brightly at him. I've been coming to this coffee shop for the last six years. I have never been able to get him to call me Johann. Or even Ms. Johann. Never, not once; he says it just doesn't feel right to him. Although he absolutely insists that anyone and everyone that walks through the door of his café call him by his first name. It must be an old southern thing. Charming to be sure.

"You havin' your usual this mornin'?"

"Yes, I am. But I need a little extra something today. Something sweet."

"Marla made beignets this morning," he said to me. "Think that might do the trick."

"Oh, it sure would," I laugh. "I'll take 'em, even if I do have to run an extra mile on the treadmill tonight." His wife Marla makes the best beignets this side of New Orleans, but she only makes them about twice a week. I try to stay away from them since you can never eat just one, a fact not at all aided by the fact that you can only get Blue Mountain beignets by the dozen. So I guess it is a good thing I only have to worry about them on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

Mitch laughed, "Don't know that you need that treadmill, Ms. Beaumont."

"That's because I use it. Religiously. Otherwise I would need it. Something fierce," I answer, laughing with him. "Thanks," I say as he hands over my coffee and a bag of warm beignets.

"Thank you," he said. "You have yourself a great day, we'll see you later."

"Thanks, you too," I say as I breeze out the door smiling. No matter how busy he is, Mitch can always takes the time to make me and all of his customers smile.

I take tiny sips of my coffee as I cross the cool marble floored lobby of my office building, trying really hard to get a good taste without burning the hell out of my mouth; my mind making the transition to work me. I am the Executive Director at Dreams Come True, a non-profit organization that helps underprivileged children from underprivileged neighborhoods into schools that bolster their various talents. We also provide them with books and materials; whatever their parents cannot provide themselves. Kids that have benefited from our organization have gone on to do great things. I am very proud of the work I do here, but sometimes we can't help everyone that needs it because of funding; I've learned to take me out of the equation and not let these disappointments affect me personally. I've learned to pocket my natural empathy, a mental process that I go through every morning when I cross the doors, because if it were up to me I would try to get the moon for all them.

"Good morning, Ms. Beaumont," says Ronnie, the security guard, in a warm drawl.

"Morning, Ronnie," I smile, in return. "Can you give me a hand with this?" I ask him, waving the bag full of beignets.

"I'd be happy to," he says walking over. I admire the view as he comes closer. Ronnie is a tall glass of chocolate milk; sweet, cool, and inviting. I flirt with him every chance I get and I am rewarded for it by being looked at like I am the most beautiful woman in the world.

"Good, cause I tryin' to minimize the damage by getting rid of as many as I can between here and my office," I laugh.

Ronnie lets his eyes wander up and down my body, pausing over the naughty bits long enough to make my temperature rise a few degrees before saying, "No damage as far as I can see. No damage at all."

He chuckles a little as I blush and murmur an inaudible response while pulling out a pastry from the bag with a napkin. I hand it over to him and he takes it, along with my coffee. He takes a slow sip, and I marvel at his audacity. As he hands my cup back, he leans in to whisper in my ear, "I know this is the closest I'll ever come to the pretty lips of yours. Thanks for the sweetness, Johann," sauntering away. Ronnie gets away with this type of behavior because he and I both know that if it wouldn't cost me my career, my prestige, and my marriage I would have fucked the taste out of his mouth a long, long time ago.

The elevator doors chose this moment to ping open, and I am left standing there with my mouth gaping open. Several people push past me onto the elevator, and I allow myself to be pressed along with them. As I come back to myself, I look around, and am quite relieved to see that no one on the elevator with me works in my office. They are all from other floors, and do not really know me beyond the nodded hello.

By the time I reach my floor, I have fully recovered from my morning encounters. Both of them. And I am back to being the enigmatic, energetic, sultry-voiced executive that I normally am. 'There will be no more gawking at beautiful boys and girls this morning,' I think to myself, realizing that my hormone induced lasciviousness needs to be put in check if I am to get anything done today. And there really is so much for me to do. I have to meet and train a new assistant, a temp, which means that sadly by the time I break her in, it will be time for her to leave. I have a board meeting, four family interviews, and a tasting for a prospective caterer for our next fundraiser. I absolutely do not have time for my libido to get in the way of my day.

"Good morning, Brenda. Care for a beignet?" I ask the receptionist as I finally reach my office.

"Oh, no thank you, Johann. I'm off carbs this week. John called me fat this weekend," she answered, with a watery smile. Brenda is a very pretty redhead, with long curly hair, and a smattering of freckles that make her look perpetually fifteen. The few extra pounds she carries actually help her youthful appearance. She isn't fat, she's plump; and she carries her extra weight in all the delicious places a woman can and should carry her weight if she's to have any extra. She is also incredibly funny, bright, cheerful, and a joy to be around. But her fiancé, John, is an asshole who figured out early on that in order for her not to realize that she was too good for him, he had to keep the negativity focused on her. I've heard the other girls in the office try to convince her of this, but for some reason unbeknownst to all of us she simply doesn't believe us, choosing instead to believe him.

All I can say to her in response is, "I'm really sorry to hear that, Bren," because if I say what I am really thinking, I might reduce the poor girl to tears. I met John once, at an office party, and I loathed him immediately. There is something about him that screams abusive misogynist. Plus he looks like a ferret.

She hands me my messages, the ones left by people that refuse to use the voicemail system thinking that their important message might get lost in the melee if they don't leave it with a human being, and while I am scanning them she says, "Your temp got here about ten minutes ago, but you just missed her, she's in the ladies' room. I think she's a bit nervous, she looked a little green."

I giggled a little, and she went on, "No, I'm serious. She was doin' the whole leg shake number, and she kept crossing and re-crossing. Then she would get up and pace a little before going right back to sitting down to do the leg shake. Poor baby. You'd think she was waiting in the lobby of police headquarters about to be interrogated for murder one the way this girl was fidgeting. To be honest with you, I'm glad you're finally here; she was making me nervous with all her nerves. Never seen anything like it."

"Maybe she just had to pee, Bren," I laughed again. "But whatev let me know when she's out of the ladies room so we can put the poor child out of her misery."

"And me too," said Brenda.

"Yes, and you too. Lord knows you have your own stuff, you don't need anyone else's nerves making you nervous."

"I know that's right," she agreed, a little too readily, and again my heart did a little squeeze of sympathy. 'One day,' I thought, 'one day, she will realize the power she really has, and she'll kick that schmuck to the curb.'

Five minutes later, just as I was done listening to my voicemail messages, my intercom buzzed and Brenda announced that my temp was ready to meet me. After asking her to show her in, I arranged myself into my very best power pose. Legs crossed at the ankles and tucked under my chair, spine straight and not touching the back of it, hands folded on my desk, expression open and welcoming but serious. As soon as Brenda walked in and stepped aside, I thanked the powers that be that I'd taken the time to school my expression.

See, fate really can and will be unkind, given the opportunity. Because standing there in all of her magnificent glory was Ms. Indian Princess. 'Holy shit,' I thought, at a loss. But work me is in control, work me has flipped the switch to auto-pilot, and I feel myself standing and smiling. As if through a tunnel, I hear myself saying, "Well what a coincidence. Good morning. It's nice to meet you. My name is Johann Beaumont, and you are?"

"Yes, yes it is. I'm Lailani Garcia," she responds smiling broadly, her slender manicured hand finding mine, and shaking it with confidence. If she was previously battling nerves, she has won and is in complete command of herself. Impressive. "It's very nice to meet you, Ms. Beaumont. I've heard a lot about you, and the company. I'm really looking forward to being here."

"Thank you," I say, "have a seat," gesturing for the chair in front of my desk. "You realize of course that this is a temporary position, that you will be covering my assistant's maternity leave?" I ask her. I have to. I don't have any other available positions at the moment, and sometimes temps get sent over from the agency with a mistaken idea about the position they will be filling.

"Yes, ma'am," she says. "But they also said that if I perform well, and I fully intend to, I might find myself a permanent position on your staff."

"That might not be for some time," I respond.

"I'm willing to take my chances. I can't imagine wanting to work anywhere more than I want to work here. My cousin Steven...well, let's just say that your organization saved my cousin. He was starting to run with the gang kids and getting into trouble, when my aunt found out about you guys. With the help that you gave the family, he was able to turn himself around. Now, he's in his last year of college, and they're saying that he'll be one of the first picks this year at the NFL draft. Our family owes you a great debt and I've wanted to work here since high school."

"Garcia, Garcia..." I mutter, thinking back to my students from a few years back. "Steve? Steven Garcia?" I ask her and she nods in response. "Okay. I see. Of course I remember Stevie. How's Maria?"

"You remember Titi Maria's name?" she asks, her composure slipping a bit, her age showing just a little.

"Of course I do," I answer kindly. "I make it a point to get to know all of our families. When one knows them, I mean really knows them, one is much more motivated to help them; to make a difference. Maria was one of those women that really touched me very deeply. She reminded me a lot of my own mother. Her determination, her perseverance, her complete faith, she inspired me. I had the hardest time placing Steve, he'd gone pretty far around the bend, gotten into quite a bit of trouble, and Wheaton Academy didn't want him, regardless of his sporting abilities. I had to beg, wheedle, and cajole. But because of Maria, I knew it was worth the extra time and effort. And now I see I wasn't wrong," I finished, smiling.

"Thank you, Ms. Beaumont," she said smiling.

"Johann," I amended immediately.

"Thank you, Johann," she said quickly, correcting herself.

"It really is my pleasure Lailani; I love my job," I said. Because of our conversation, I was able to finally study her. I mean really contemplate her fully. My previous assessment of her had been made with discrete-I'm-not-gay-glances. Now I was able to really study her. She was actually far more stunning than I'd previously thought.

Her hair was raven wing black, and glossy as glass. Her eyes, subtly made-up, were so dark brown they looked black, with a fringe of very long, very thick lashes. Her skin was the color of light butter toffee, her cheekbones high, her lips full and a dark rose color. Such a beautiful rose color that she'd forgone lipstick, in favor of lip balm, leaving the natural color to dazzle on its own. And the body...goodness, does this child have a body. Average height, maybe a little shorter, with high proud breasts, a teeny tiny waist, full curvaceous hips and ass, and dancer's legs; envy inspiring, that's what it is, but so inviting and so tempting you want to weep.

"Yes, ma'am, I've been told," she answered, bringing me out of my reverie. "It is what made me want to follow in your footsteps. I just got my degree in social work from St. Andrew's and I don't want to waste it stuck in the system. 'Dreams' really does make a difference in the lives of the people it touches, and I want to be a part of that. I know that I was called to fill in for your assistant. But I believe in the laws of the universe. And I know that this is where I work," she stated, with such an utter unshakeable belief in herself that I was reminded of her aunt.