How She Stained The Conference Room Carpet

by Grace Roberts

“Yes,” she lied.

The first encounter I had with that such woman caused me to lie awake for hours the next night, staring unthinking at my ceiling until the pills kicked in and my brain dutifully shut off. It haunted me, really, the thought of her existence, so ostensibly simple but brutal in practice. I could do absolutely nothing about it, regardless of how tightly I squeezed the hand of my benefactor as we shook on our deal, her presence ever as obvious as her sharp signature on the affidavit. I was leaving behind a position I had worked tirelessly to obtain, but that was the lucrative business of love, and she had an uncanny ability to make someone fight for her under the semblance they were fighting for themselves.

Half-smile in place like a casual piece of armor, I almost wanted to slap her across her face, just to see the muscles contract and relax back into that same arrogantly pitying gaze. Instead, she brushed a thumb across my hand and smiled, silently daring me to make any movement besides breathe. I could have sworn I felt my suit jacket genuinely catching fire as I turned my back to her and walked away, her eyes following me long after I had made sure the door closed and locked behind me. I was ripping the stitches out of my work, slowly, plucking board members and international CFOs with careful consistency. It was becoming a lovely evening dress for her, but I kept pricking my fingers.

Seven days and seven hours passed and still I scrubbed my hand where she had touched it as if to rid it of association while she watched from her ivory tower, leaning a little too far over the balcony railing. I could hear her whispering, back and to the left of my ear, some Shakespearian foolishness to accompany the situation, “Out, damned spot!” It has never since occurred to me why women offer that coy smile or touch their finger to their lips as if to gloat mid-secret, tendencies I can only imagine I would have employed myself had I even been half as smart as they were. I continued my silent assault, while she assured me I was indispensable and we would rebuild my reputation together. I was, of course, doing this all in the name of love. My name was removed from the building a week later.

Fortune, unfortunately, favored the brave with a sense of irony, men who talked behind glass doors, where I watched them spill secrets but never heard their consonance. Just within arm’s reach, but effortlessly elusive as always they managed to conduct business as usual, bulletproof vests discarded in favor of suits and dry remarks, tailored alike. It was rather difficult to make amicable colleagues when you were set on ruining their lives, business was tricky like that, but they saw right through it, ever careful of what they chose to disclose to me. I had no such strength in comparison, though I often wished I had something of substance with which to barricade myself behind - all I managed to do was jam a chair under the door handle when they came to collect me.

The whiskey went down smooth but my initial proposition was smoother, foolproof because I had convinced myself of such, right up until I watched as the lie left her lips as easily as if she were asking me to zip up her dress, please. Slick, oily smiles, glances exchanged over a few too many strong drinks and papers signed under the table, I had grown up in the world of corporate espionage but had fallen for the enemy, breaking the cardinal rule. I was informed later on that I had breached some form of a treason clause. I didn’t know nor did I care because I knew how it would end for me but I was so desperately curious to see what her ending looked like, what kind of deals she would cut until she reached the devil himself. A couple months jail time appeared insignificant when placed next to a lifetime of living in this woman’s shadow. How foolish I had been, and how cruel my temporary obsession.

I had learnt my lesson and learnt it well, paid my dues and made collect calls to all the right people. I had cracked my ribs wide open, let her crawl inside and chisel at my heart with tiny, precise tools until it resembled something foreign to me. Looking back I used to be so careful of what I wished for, except when it mattered, as of course it belonged to none but her. Had I understood the importance of the separation of church and state as it applied to my occupation and my relationship with her, I might have left my employment with some semblance of self, but alas, I left kicking and screaming, screaming her name. I hated her almost as much as I loved her, and, upon further consideration, realized I was, quite simply, terrified of her.

The talking heads would materialize eventually, they would all ask, incessantly, about the nature of my claims; surely the prodigal son of his father’s company wouldn’t have dreamed of digging up the shallow graves filled with scandals and security issues. But, they would inject, if it hadn’t been for the girl. Romeo and Juliet, but if Juliet had lived, overtaken a Fortune 500 company, and made millions. The headline practically wrote itself. She had saved her own neck, that perfect neck, that dip where the nape became the atlas of her spine. I had committed it to memory and found myself searching for it, somewhere in the back of my head, still sore from its contact with the tile floor. That cunning spine. She had seemed to remove mine sometime during the space when we met and fell into orbit, I suppose, at some point when I had been on my knees, head bent and back bared, to worship her.

Beckoning and begging, I had burnt my tongue on too many promises, hushed sentences that I did everything in my power to sweep back under the rug when I cleaned my house of her. It seemed necessary at the time, surely I was blinded by some form of white light she emitted, innocence practically dripping from her lips as she watched me ask the question. Her response took a form I failed to recognize, the lie floating to the carpet where it proceeded to seep and stain as if she had let a glass of wine slip from her fingers. And it was the day everything fell to pieces, laid out in front of me on the conference room carpet.

“As you wish,” I had replied.