chapter un-numbered, unfinished

[march.14.2008.6:10am]

"to have a craving, appetite or great desire for."
-poetry.com


it weighed heavy on my mind, brought me physical discomfort. it was the cause to my fidgeting; the double shots of expressos I drank didn't ease my agitation.

attention flocked to it by the masses. those who I rarely spoke to soon found themselves finding meaningless lures to engage in conversation with me. I took their bait. gave them the chance to remind me once more of the reality I've foolishly mistaken for as pure fantasy. co-workers from other departments somehow made her or his way to the floor I worked on. they'd pass me by looking at the papers hidden in their manila folders, pretending to be reading so intently, reading as if the truth they wrote for me was written on the surface.

the stares from the drama thirsty hyenas I worked with and the silent disapproval of the lions I worked for burned the white hot existence of the mistakes I made which resulted in me feeling like a wounded gazelle. my fall from grace had spilled into my professional life and this is when I recognized that lust had me in a chokehold.

I made my runs to the copy machine and I didn't have to force the urgency; my Starbucks intake was more than my usual so I displayed more than a little pep in my step. good thing I was known for my efficientcy at work so the extra speed I displayed in my gait seemed as if I was concerned with the productivity of the company.

I whisked by my acquaintance Olivia's office. she was a woman whom I had grown secure enough with to engage in dialouge that consisted of more than what was bred in our workplace. her door was open and as I rounded the corner, my peripheral vision found her filing her nails as she always did, waiting for me to come by. I had no intentions on stopping to lend her my company; the fact that I mistook her keen ear for safety two years ago allowed me to realize one of my very first mistakes made on my laundry list I had full of them.

my feet pounded on the office's thin carpeting and the soles of my flats began to level with the floor. I soon reached the office door that belonged to me, I opened it and returned the heavy slab of hardwood into the framework of the doorway.

the leather seat embraced my five foot eight frame, molded me in its welcoming comfort. the cool sensation of cold leather never failed to soothe me until now. the chair I adored so much neglected to fondle the skin of the back of my knees. I exhaled as I remembered this chair was a gift from him.

thinking of him, reminding myself of his existence, brought me to relive sins stained on the surface of my desk as well as the sins that lived in the very leather of this seat, sins that were birthed even before the chair was ingeniously moved to live in my office. hell, I couldn't bring it home. it would've struck out as a sign. a large, black, leather sign; a breadcrumb in the trail to my gingerbread house.

it was a gift I told myself; the truth then told me that it was more accurately described as a trophy.

my mind was doing sprints, hurdles and long jumps as I began to watch the sleek phone that rested on the corner of my desk.

I needed to dial.

what would I say? would the expresso betray me into speeding up my confessions, the many I sleep with while next to him?

I didn't trust myself at that moment to be sharp, cunning, sly to lightly converse undetected while I prodded for any signs of new intelligence he might've gained. I still wanted to be predator yet I succumbed to be prey simultaneously; subjected myself to be prey to a wolf dressed in designer wolves clothing.

still, I needed to dial.

my gaze became glossed over and absentmindedly, my index finger and thumb looped around my source of stress, the well of my anxiety and the burden I reluctantly wore. I wanted to melt my fallacious being into the fiber of the seat. closing my eyes proved calming as I sat simulating my demise of lies, hearing myself admit actions that only are kept preserved in the darkness in which they were committed to being brought to manifest.

the shriek of the phone's ringing brought my chest muscles to tighten and my heart rate sped. instantly, my arm pits watered. regretfully, my vagina tingled. I outstretched my arm to lift the phone out of its cradle.

the shrieking stopped.

the grip I held to the phone was loose; I left slack to drop it from my ear if need be. I didn't greet the caller with salutations, nor did I ask who was on the other end. I didn't have to. the silence seeping through the speaker told me the identity of the dialer. the low undertones of his accented softspoken voice swarm into my eardrum and ensnared my weakness for the silk they spun.

I remained still, inhaling and exhaling controlled breaths. he'd have to begin before I could speak. having to force myself to talk with him strictly professionally over the phone was now very afflicting for this is how I failed to not fall in love with him.


this has been an excerpt from my genious.
Copyright © 2008 Char'Nae James