Page 85 of Error Handling
Christopher laughs. “You get used to it, I guess. I think the executives like it because they can peer at their minions all day through their glass office walls. They all have god complexes.”
“Sure, sign me up,” I say.
“It’s not that bad. If you work up to a management position like me, you get to have an office and your own minions.”
“Can I paint stylized Charleston oak trees on its walls?”
“No one has ever asked me that question, but I’m going to assume the answer is no.”
The progress bar on Christopher’s laptop ticks slowly to the right. As each image loads, another thumbnail appears in his photo app.
“How did the repairs in your apartment go?” Christopher says.
I feel a twinge of nerves. I’ve purposefully avoided the topic in our texts. Christopher doesn’t know that Chris has been doing the work.
“I finally have a kitchen floor,” I say. “And the living room hardwood floor is ready to sand.”
Christopher scratches his chin with his thumb. “There’s still work to do? I figured it would all be done by now.”
I shrug. Why do I feel like a mouse cornered by a cat? “You know how contractors are. They have their own timelines.”
He presses his lips into a line and then swivels around to study his laptop. “I’ve heard that can be the case.” He clicks on an image, but it doesn’t open. The progress bar reads seventy-five percent complete.
“How many pictures did you take?” I ask, eager to change topics.
“A bum ton,” Christopher replies. He props his elbows on the desktop and stares intently at the progress bar.
“How much is a bum ton?” I ask.
“It’s somewhere between a metric ton and a googolplexian.”
“Wow. I guess that’s a lot.”
When the progress bar reads one hundred percent, Christopher waves me over. I scoot my swivel chair on its castors and pull up next to him.
“I’m not sure I’m ready for this,” I say.
“I think you’re going to like them.”
Christopher clicks through the pictures. To my surprise, I’m not making any funny faces. Some of my smiles are forced. In some, my eyes are closed. In one, I’m mid-sneeze. But overall, Christopher made me look better than I usually look in my bathroom mirror after half an hour of primping.
Halfway through the slideshow, Christopher adjusts his weight, his chair swivels, and our knees touch. Neither of us moves.
My rational mind tells me I’m giving Christopher an opening and that I need to ease up before things get more complicated, but my emotions tell me to stay put and enjoy the closeness.
When we reach the last photo, Christopher turns to me. “What did you think?”
“I think you should pursue a photography degree at College of Charleston.”
“You made my job easy.”
“I did? I think I need to work on giving you more attitude.”
“You do have a smart mouth sometimes, but otherwise, yeah. The camera loves you.”
Christopher reaches out and carefully repositions the curls on my shoulder. Then, he tilts my head just so, leans in, and kisses me.
It’s not a peck on the lips. This qualifies as my third official kiss.