A little about about to be about a girl

The coworker is a woman who works for me and has a cardiac event while at work on Tuesday.

Her heart is racing.

I feel partially responsible for the event because I give her an uneven workload that turns out is causing her anxiety in this weird economic climate.

The events leading up to this hospital situation involve an agency editor who once expressed her dismay about said coworker’s writing.

The editor is the stunningly beautiful hot woman who is “Living on a Prayer” during a Bon Jovi Song at our company holiday party a couple of weeks back.

The coworker has no one to contact at the agency when it is determined that she is about to be whisked away in an ambulance. She calls the only extension she can remember at the time – that of the editor.

The editor comes to my desk to inform me of the situation. The room gets warm. She shuts off a light.

I can hear her heart beating.

I decide to depart for the ER to make sure coworker has company and peace of mind. And to cool off.

The editor unexpectedly follows me to the ER. She chastises me for giving the coworker an uneven workload. We make inadvertent close physical contact and do not pull back. I ask her out.

We go out for sushi, even though I hate sushi (The picture in the entry below is of the restaurant). We drink wine. We hit it off. Kind of. I walk her to the train station. We make magnetic eye contact and don’t unlock. We touch lips good-bye. Then unlock.

The attraction builds on Wednesday.

Thursday there’s some mighty force drawing us together. She stops at my desk for 5 minutes. She tells me she’s going to a happy hour. I tell her I won’t make it.

So there I am, at the happy hour with a Stoli and tonic in hand. We’re trying to be casual. We do a good job. Except when we touch. Kind of.

Our hearts our seismic.

She leaves. I stay. A friend in common, of direct Irish descent (which has no meaning other than the fact that he is a charming womanizer who has a way with words--something completely foreign to me), takes interest in the growing entanglement between the editor and me. He’s this boss dude at the agency who lives in my town.

After about a million drinks we call a limo to share a ride home. He calls the editor during the ride and starts to ask questions about the her and me. For some reason she ends up on speakerphone talking about going commando in a wet t-shirt.

Actually, now that I think of it, I think I broached the subject. The limo drops me off. I have a nice dream once I finally fall asleep.

My heart is thumping.

We go out for coffee today. We pack a day’s worth of laughs into 20 minutes.