Chapter 2 - Honey Meet Don't Touch Me
Her fingers were still locked around my upper arm when he got there.
I hadn't realized how hard she was holding on until I tried to shift my weight away from the spill. My shoe slipped a half inch on the wet marble and her grip tightened, not to steady me but to keep me there. The broken white cups were at our feet, brown coffee spreading out in a thin shine toward my stained papers. The smell was hot and bitter. Behind the reception counter, nobody moved. I could hear the pendant lights humming above us, or maybe that was just my own ears.
"You can't touch me," she said. Her voice cut straight across the lobby. "You picked the wrong woman."
It was strange hearing it again in my head that way, because she said it like she was the one being held. Her blonde hair had fallen forward over her red blazer, and her other hand was up near my phone, near my face. My blouse clung damp and cold where the coffee had soaked through the white fabric. I hated that everyone could see the stains spreading.
My name is Elena, I was ten minutes early for a file drop, and that morning I had still believed my marriage could stay private at work.
My phone was hot against my ear. I don't even remember dialing. I think I hit redial when she grabbed me, just to hear someone familiar breathe. The line clicked and I heard his office extension pick up down the hall, and then I saw him actually coming through the side doorway in his dark suit and blue tie, moving fast.
I lifted my chin and stepped forward, dragging her half-step with me because she wouldn't let go. "My husband owns this place," I said. I meant it to sound steady. It came out sharp and angry, louder than I wanted in all that marble echo.
That did it. He broke into a half-run. He wedged his shoulder between us, his mouth open like he was already shouting my name before any sound came out. His left hand went up toward her shoulder, his right hand came down toward my elbow, not grabbing, just making space. I felt the air move when he forced that six inches between our faces.
For a second all three of us were breathing hard around the edge of the marble counter. My stained papers were slipping in my hand. I could see brown spots bleeding through the top sheet where the coffee had splashed. I lowered my phone from my ear and set it down toward the cold counter because my hand was shaking too much to keep holding everything. The black screen stared up, still lit with the call timer running.
He looked at me, then at her, mouth still open. The coworkers at the reception desk were staring without pretending to work now. A girl with a headset had her hand frozen over her keyboard. An older man by the elevators just stopped walking.
I couldn't take it back, so I pushed it forward. I pointed with my free hand from him to her, my voice cracking on the first word.
"Honey, meet Don't touch me!" I said. "That's my husband."
May you like
The blonde woman let go of my arm like I'd burned her. She took one step back, then another, her heels clicking on the dry part of the marble. And then she laughed. It wasn't a big laugh. It was short, disbelieving, tossed toward the reception desk like she wanted someone else to laugh with her. Nobody did. The silence after it was worse.
My husband stayed where he was, one arm still half-raised between us. The spill was still there behind us, cups on their sides, coffee dark against the light floor. My phone rested on the marble counter between us, the call still connected, and none of us reached for it.
