CtrlC, CtrlV. CtrlC, CtrlV. #3
There is just one upside to the windows in our office: employees from neighboring office buildings who want to look at us can only see a bright glow, indicating that the light is on our floor.
The downsides, on the other hand, are many.
Regardless of whether the sun is shining during the day or not, it’s dark and depressing inside because of that damn film on the windows.
Our OSHA department, on the other hand, constantly extols the benefits that firstly, thanks to the special coating, the interior doesn’t heat up—the company saves on air conditioning, and we are comfortable at work.
Secondly, employees are protected from harmful UV rays, so we are not risking skin cancer and will cheerfully work for the company for another hundred years, enjoying good health.
Thirdly, the building is elegant, classy and stylish-looking—and this actually matters, especially when, after leaving work for the day following a twelve-hour grind, all you want to do is lift your leg like a dog and pee on the chic walls of your workplace.
I sigh heavily and lean my forehead against the cool glass.
And although I’m hot as hell, I crave the sun, the warm air, the vacations…
And here, fuck, it’s just the beginning of winter—December twenty-fourth, Christmas Eve, 5:05 in the evening, and it’s snowing.
I could now sing Just you wait through January, February, March, April, May, June and…
vacation! It will be vacation again! The waiting is not in vain. Vacation will come again…
But I’m not singing because I’m temporarily down in the dumps.
I still have two more spreadsheets left to deal with, which will take me about an hour and a half.
Christmas Eve dinner starts at my family home at 7:00 p.m. I have no idea how I’m going to manage to get to my apartment, change clothes and get to the other end of the city.
What’s more, the very thought of tonight turns my stomach.
I’m not looking forward to spending it with my parents and my brother and his wife, but it is, after all, fucking Christmas Eve.
Everyone is busting their ass to share this special night with loved ones.
And I don’t want to! My parents are as close to me as my neighbor’s cat, who hisses at me every time I meet him on the stairs.
And I would bet my right hand that the situation is similar in quite a few homes, and the celebration of Christmas does not have much to do with the joy of the birth of the Son of God.
Picture some pious Gregory who attends Mass in church every Sunday with his wife Magda.
He loves Christ the Lord with all his heart and soul.
On this magical Christmas Eve, he decides to celebrate the anniversary of His birth by munching on cabbage and peas, drinking pure vodka and growling at his spouse that the carp is underdone.
His sainted mother used to make her own pierogi rather than buy them ready-made.
Gregory’s wife, on the other hand (she worships the Lord as much as he does), already goes to bed angry after dinner; she hasn’t eaten anything because she’s on a diet and, for fuck’s sake, her husband was supposed to get her an iPad as a gift, not a fucking MacBook.
Long live the spirit of family holidays! I hate Christmas Eve.
I can already hear my mother, while pouring mushroom soup, moaning that I’m ruining my life.
That I’m not earning enough. That I’m wasting my talent.
That I’m at the age that I should give her grandchildren.
My father, on the other hand, drives another nail in the coffin, claiming that a woman must be the housemaker of the household, take care of her husband, raise the children, and not pursue a career at all costs.
I, after all, have not achieved anything so far and will not achieve anything.
My duty, then, is to find myself a well-established husband and focus on what I’m best at—sitting at home and cooking dinners.
I feel prickling under my eyelids. I really don’t know why I want to cry.
After all, I don’t give a damn about their opinion, I’ve long since accepted that they’re disappointed in me, that they think I’m a loser (unlike my brother).
Or maybe the tears show up because, somewhere deep down, I think they might be right?
That maybe I should finally settle down?
Not that I don’t want to have a man who will love me, respect me and believe in me more than my parents.
A guy for whom I would be ready to move mountains and not be stuck in the dreariness of reality.
But he hasn’t appeared yet. I don’t have much luck in love.
It’s always the same pattern: infatuation (no fireworks), a series of dates (the standard movie, restaurant, walk), missionary sex (lukewarm and without gusto), a bit of dating and then parting—but remaining friends.
What is wrong with me? I’m almost thirty years old, I’m single, and my most reliable lover is my trusty vibrator, inhabiting my nightstand in the company of naughty books.
Instead of spending tonight with the man of my dreams, I’ll once again endure my parents’ jabs, feeling like garbage in the process.
My eyes fill with tears—of sadness, bitterness and anger. I feel a weight in my chest, take a deep breath, followed by another. My lips quiver.
Shit, I’m falling apart.
Maria, get a grip, damn it, and stop feeling sorry for yourself!
After all, nothing bad is happening. There are millions of girls like you in the world.
You should be happy: you’re healthy, you have your own apartment (it doesn’t matter that you will be paying off your loan until you’re sixty), a car (it doesn’t matter much that your 2000 Fiat Panda has a battery that’s continuously dead), you’re starting a business (it doesn’t matter that you have only one customer).
You’re a self-sufficient woman, so don’t whine and daydream.
Just sit on your ass at your desk, go back to work and earn some cash to make your dreams come true!
“You forgot to add depreciation to the cost.” I hear Jan coming out of the office.
I get all tense. I rub my cheeks quickly, praying that my mascara doesn’t smear.
“Maria?” Jan stops right behind me. I don’t turn around because I don’t want him to see me like this. I look at the glass in the window and immediately realize that Engler can see my reflection in it. Our gazes meet.
Crap. I’m really not in the mood to hear, “Please get a grip and get back to work.”
“Maria, I am talking to you.” He looks straight at my reflection in the glass.
“I can hear you. I’m already correcting it.” My voice is hoarse. I take a step to the side to avoid him, but he grabs my wrist.
His hand is warm and rough, holding me firmly, but not so tight as to cause pain. If you don’t count today’s scene in the employee lounge, Jan has never touched me. He has always successfully avoided any physical contact. His words have always been enough to express what he wanted.
My breathing is accelerating. I’m still standing with my back to Jan, unable to move.
“Please look at me when you talk to me.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t even flinch.
“Maria. Please look at me.” His voice is commanding, his touch scorching, his proximity paralyzing. All this makes a jolt of electricity pass through me from my wrist to my shoulder, through my collarbone, until it spreads to my breasts.
I take a deep breath and turn to face him. Jan’s gray eyes are piercing into me. He looks intently at my face, as if trying to read my every thought.
He is wearing the same shirt that I poured coffee on. The collar is buttoned up to the neck as usual (a neat freak!), and the tie partially obscures the brown stain and sits impeccably on his broad chest (it’s a miracle it didn’t suffer in the coffee accident).
I lift my gaze and encounter lead-colored irises. They stare at me so intensely that I feel short of breath. I’m almost certain Jan is about to ask why I’m not at my desk and working.
“It’s not raining here. Why are you wearing a down jacket?” His tone is serious.
I look at him in disbelief. Has he fallen off the deep end? I burst into laughter.
“I see that I made you laugh. Am I funny in your opinion?”
“No.” I’m trying to maintain some semblance of seriousness, but I’m failing miserably. “I just didn’t expect such a question from you.”
“What question did you expect?” His penetrating gaze drills right into my eyes.
“Probably something like…” I grunt and lower my voice an octave. “Why are you feeling sorry for yourself instead of working?”
Jan frowns.
“Do you really think I could say that, seeing you in such a state?”
“Yes,” I answer without hesitation.
“Why?”
What do you mean why? Because that’s who you are, Jan. You’re a goddamn ice block viewing people as calculating, analyzing and reporting machines.
“Well…” I’m looking for the right words that won’t provoke him to fire me, and at the same time, give him some food for thought. “Your interpersonal style is quite chilly.”
“Chilly?” He raises his eyebrows.
“Yes. Not very empathetic.”
“Not very empathetic,” he repeats. “Anything else?”
Pfft. Shall I lay out his entire list of vices? Here you go: thick-skinned, rough, difficult, dry, passionless, formal, stiff… and I can go on listing until Santa Claus rides across the sky in his sleigh pulled by Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.
“I get the impression that you are reluctant to give in to your emotions,” I reply tactfully. “You don’t show them outwardly, which sometimes causes a tense atmosphere.”
“Would you rather I show them?”
“Surely it would be nicer if you sometimes tried to be more… Um… Nice? Cordial? Unreserved…?”
“How much?”
I shrug lightly.
“As much as you can.”
“I sure can. The question is, are you certain you want it?”