breakroom fantasy

Wrote this in April of 2004, right after I'd gotten a new job...

I pour myself a cuppa in the break room, then walk to the "smoking lounge", which may be the only room in the entire building that isn't decorated and dressed up in the corporate motif that the rest of the building wears. It's all concrete and steel, with an HVAC system that growls and mutters constantly, eating smoke and pushing out bland air. There are a few tables and some chairs scattered around the concrete floor, and ashtrays everywhere. It's completely utilitarian: you don't go there to lounge, you go there to get your fix. If heroin were legal, there'd be a supply of cheap spoons and a rubber hose dispenser bolted to the wall.

The great thing about it is the floor to ceiling window that makes up the entire east wall. It's nice to stop for a while, and look out at the city stretching away in all the directions you can see.

My first break is at 5am. It's been years since I've had an ordered break schedule at a job, and honestly, I kind of dig it. Something to look forward to, and I'm not nearly smoking as much, which is good. The break room is always empty at 5; I'm pretty sure that I'm one of maybe 10 people in the entire building. So, when I open the door and there's someone by the window across the room, it takes me a little by surprise.

It's one of the maintenance crew, and he's busy cleaning the windows. His back's to me when I walk through the door, though he spares me an over the shoulder glance before turning back to the task at hand. I light up, looking out the window at the dark city, thinking like usual how odd my schedule is; how everyone else I know is still asleep or just waking up, and here my day is well on it's way to being half over.

And then, because it's just the kind of guy I am, it occurs to me that Mr Window-washer is actually rather cute. I sneak a quick peek, watching as he stretches up one arm up, the muscles of his back moving in entertaining ways under the shirt he's wearing.... the boy is really built under the bland uniform he's wearing, you can tell just by looking.

And so I stand there, slowly smoking my cigarette and smiling what I can only imagine is an evil little smile while in the privacy of my own mind me and the Mr Window-washer violate obscenity laws together. The idea and thought and image all hit me like like lightening; pushing him back against the window as our mouths come together, urgent and almost violent. One hand on the back of his neck, pulling him to me, the other reaching down between us. His belt's unbuckled and falling open, my fingers working quickly to undo the button and zipper of his pants, then pushing them roughly down his legs.

And then he's leaning back, his pants down around his ankles and me on my knees in front of him, hands and fingers and lips and tongue doing what they need to do as fast as I can make them. His fingers twine and pull in my hair, telling me that what I'm doing is what he wants, what he needs. The idea that anyone in the parking lot or across the street has a clear view of us makes it even better.

And then it's over. We stand there for a second, just staring at each other in that connection it seems you can only get in moments like this. I lean in, kissing him deeply so he can taste what I'm tasting. And then, without saying a word, I turn away and walk out, back to my desk and back to work...

My imaginary lover is still turned away from me, washing the windows as I finish my cigarette, crushing it out slowly in the plastic ashtray on the table beside me. If he were to turn around at that moment, he'd see me smiling; see that I'm sneaking glances over to him and biting my lower lip. And maybe, if we were members of the same tribe.... but he doesn't turn around, so I offer a mental thank you, and go back to work, wondering not for the first time how different the world would be if we could see what was going on in other peoples minds.