The next few days are like a cold shower #6
Ouch! My cheek hurts, where I leaned against the armchair.
I don’t even know when I fell asleep. I’m sleep-deprived, crumpled from sleeping in a sitting position, but all I can think about is finishing my creative work.
I rub my neck with my hand and hear the sound of a garbage truck that has just pulled up in front of the pergola at the back of the apartment building.
Strange, what are they doing so early today… ? What time is it actually?
Suddenly an alarm signal sounds in my head. I panic, look around the floor for my cell phone, grab it with a pounding heart and freeze.
Holy crap! Ten to eight!!!
I spring to my feet, darting around the apartment like a panicked fly evading a swatting hand.
Blouse, tights, skirt, shoes, purse, phone, keys, jacket, hat. Breakfast doesn’t matter, I’ll have some conference-room snacks at work.
I run outside like a bat out of hell. The cold air sobers me up and I forget that I have slept just a few hours on the floor in a sitting position, leaning against the armchair.
I run to the car and at the last moment remember that I have a dead battery after all.
Well, fuck! I rush to the bus stop and see the bus coming.
Thank goodness! I run inside, people glance at me as if I am wearing a chamber pot on my head.
I must have dark circles under my eyes and the wild look of a crazy person, but the only thing I can worry about at this point is the fact that I’m already late for work.
The elevator stops on the floor of my department.
I get to the coat rack, leave my jacket (get on there!) and run to the open space.
This is my first late arrival since I started working here.
Holy shit, never again! I feel like a monkey in the zoo.
Fifty pairs of eyes are looking straight at me.
Some are smiling under their breath, others are staring with raised eyebrows, some are shaking their heads in disapproval, and some are cheering mutely, “ Run , Maria, run !”
I throw my bag on the desk, turn on my laptop and glance at the wall clock. Eight twenty. I made good time anyway. I slump back in my chair, trying to calm my breathing. Maybe I was lucky and Jan didn’t notice my absence. He’s sitting in that hole of his going over some calculations…
“Which bit of ‘eight sharp’ didn’t you understand?” A low voice sounds behind me.
Shit.
I close my eyes. The damn stickler. I know that no amount of explaining will help me anyway because Engler is nuts about punctuality, and even if I climbed to the heights of creativity and came up with some brilliant excuse, he wouldn’t give a damn about it anyway.
“I understood everything. I’m just running late. I can stay longer if there is a lot of work.” I get up slowly from the chair, straighten up, draw in a deep breath and turn towards my boss.
He stands in a slight stride, holding his hand in the pocket of his dark suit pants. His jacket is fastened on one button, his shirt looks starched, his tie is perfectly knotted, his shoulders are broad, and his scent is intoxicating.
He looks me over from head to toe, then stops his gaze on my face, and his eyebrows wander upward.
“What does this mean?”
“Pardon?”
He squints slightly, looking at me inquisitively.
“I am looking for a logical explanation for what I see.”
What the hell is he talking about?
“And what do you seem to see?”
“Your face.”
“Is there something wrong with it?” I instinctively touch my cheeks, as if to check that they are in place.
“If this is not a manifestation of your faith, I would ask you to avoid this type of makeup in the workplace.”
What kind of makeup? I don’t use makeup. I mean, I put on some powder and mascara, but today I definitely didn’t have time for that.
I can hear the muffled laughter of the employees behind me. Well, something must really be wrong with my face.
I turn around, reach into my purse for my phone, turn on my selfie camera mode, and draw in the air so deep that it makes me gasp.
“Holy shit,” I exhale.
The dirty camera blurs the image a bit, but it’s clear as day that I look like some fucking zebra in a painting by a drunk artist! My forehead, cheekbones and jaw are marked with white paint lines.
Exquisite. I can feel myself turning red. A zebra transformed into a fan of Poland’s national colors. Maria, the goal post! The wrong goal, you idiot!
Shit. What a shame. The only thing I can do in this situation is to turn this absurd situation into a joke.
“Please forgive me, I flew straight from Kenya from the Kikuyu celebration.”
“Excuse me?” Jan looks at me as if I were speaking to him in Swahili.
God, what a jerk.
“Nothing. I have to use the restroom.”
I dodge sideways and rush, head down, toward the bathroom.
The wing armchair, which I used for my cushion, did a job on me today. Luckily, I painted the armrests white and not brown. Engler would be ready to think that I had smeared myself with something resembling poop in protest of my working hours.
Mr. Engler, this is a special organic mask made from Andean llama droppings for wrinkles, which I’ve had a hankering for and then some, because since I started working with you, I’ve been stressing like hell.
“Dear, what are you wearing on your face?” Olga stops in amazement with a cup in her hand as I rush down the hallway.
“Don’t ask.” I pass her, open the bathroom door, rush inside and as soon as I see myself in full glory in the mirror reflection, I let out a moan of despair.
Oh, Christ Almighty.
My hair is disheveled like a witch, yesterday’s smudged mascara (how could I have forgotten it?
!) makes my eyes look wild, my face has glaring white damned paint lines, the blouse also leaves much to be desired, as it is a bit crumpled and, on top of that, unevenly fastened. A picture of misery and despair.
Well, Maria, you have outdone yourself.
I stare at my own reflection and I recall Jan’s face.
I wonder what he was thinking. He’s always so clean, neat, impeccably dressed, shaved and smelling nice.
Good thing he didn’t get a stroke at the sight of me.
At his age, it’s no longer a joke. Poor guy, he’s probably still standing there heavily shocked, trying to pull himself together.
I glance again at my startling reflection in the mirror and snort with laughter. What a beauty.
Well, it’s time to wash it off. It’s a good thing I used acrylic paint and not oil paint because that would need a solvent.
I turn off the faucet, dispense the soap into my hand and start scrubbing my face.
The streaks should come off easily after a few minutes of washing.
But somehow, they don’t come off. That is, the lines get fainter, they disappear slowly, but my skin slowly starts to look like I’ve got sunstroke.
Get off my skin! I rub my jaw until my skin burns like fire. What the hell?
“This should help.” Olga enters the bathroom, sits down on the sink counter and hands me a sponge to wash up. “Did you know that you are the star of this morning?”
“Engler nearly had a heart attack at the sight of me,” I state.
“At least you provided some entertainment.”
“Certainly not to him. Not even the corners of his mouth twitched.” I rub my forehead with a sponge. It hurts, but it comes off.
“Because he doesn’t recognize a joke. And he never smiles.”
“Never ever, ever, ever?” I glance at Olga, puzzled.
“I have never seen him smiling, and I’ve been working here a while.”
“Even so lightly? You know, kindly, perfunctorily?”
“Even so.”
“Oh, dear. Maybe he’s suffering from some kind of facial muscle paralysis?” I’m rubbing my cheekbone.
“Then I don’t think he could talk,” Olga states.
“You know, he’s not too talkative, either.”
“Well, he is like that. Maybe God created him for loftier purposes than smiling and talking?”
“Meaning?” I stick out my chin and rub off the leftover paint.
“For counting and fucking?”
I burst out laughing.
“Please, Olga. The fact is, the guy has a flexible mind, but physically he’s stiff as a pole.”
“And I think that’s the point, isn’t it? He should be stiff.” She vigorously moves her eyebrows and jumps off the countertop. “Okay, I’m going back to work, because today I have to leave at four to pick up my son from school.”
“Lucky girl. I, for one, will probably have to sit extra four hours as part of my twenty-minutes being late.”
“We’ll talk when you have a child.” Olga pats me on the shoulder. “Enjoy your freedom. Believe me, sometimes at home I miss work so much that I would love to swap with you. See ya.”
“Bye.”
When she leaves, I’m still scrubbing my face, which already looks a lot better (although it’s pink and burning).
I remember Olga’s comment about the ‘lofty purposes’ for which God created Jan, and I want to laugh.
My boss and fucking. Yeah, these words are contradictory.
Antonyms. Like warm and cold. Moist and dry. Young and old.
Well, that’s it—my boss is cold, dry and old.
God, I’m so cruel. I should feel sorry for him—the guy is wasting his potential.
He could have become Mister Polonia. He’s damn smart, he’s on the ball, and, no matter what, he’s as handsome as a model promoting an exclusive brand of suits.
I have no idea which one because the subject is foreign to me and completely uninteresting.
I’ve never had a reason to absorb this kind of information.
This is further proof that men like Engler (who wear suits, cufflinks and ties) have never been part of my sphere of interest. That has been, is still, and ever will be the case.
My type is a laid-back guy in jeans, a T-shirt, a leather jacket and a smile on his lips.
Such as Karol…
Oh, doggone it! I was supposed to call him.
*
“Hi, beautiful. How’s it going?” Karol, as usual, greets me so cheerfully that my mood immediately improves.
“Great. Can you take a break? I want to talk to you about what happened yesterday.”