200 seconds

If you read my 100 Seconds blog then you know about my lunch time story. If you haven't, please get familiar with it because the part two was something else.

The next day, I had it in my head that I was going to be more prepared for the next go 'round.

My first plan was one of evasive action. Don't judge me. I figured if I didn't see her, I didn't have to put my best foot backwards to keep her impromptu advances at bay. And what better way than to show up to lunch an entire half an hour earlier than the day before.

At the stroke of 1 pm, I grabbed my lunch and paper and headed two floors down to the lunchroom. Emtpy. Completely. Yesssss. So I find a seat, lay my paper on the table, open up my container and get ready to enjoy my lunch. But before the aroma can hit my nose, the door opens and...

"In she came with the same type game..."
Mos Def, Ms. Phat Booty

"You've got to be kidding me," I say to myself while keeping the poker face.

She made an apparent b-line for my table and before I could get out my generic salutation, she places her book and lunch on my table and then proceeds to ask me if she would be intruding upon my lunch if she sat here.

"No, not at all," I tell her. Lying.

My lunch time break is my time. My cherished time. I don't eat at my desk because I need the disconnect. I don't skip lunch because I need to eat. I don't spend my lunch talking because I'm eating. Is she infringing? Hell yes. So why don't I just tell her so? Because I'm not rude. [Thanks, Mom.]

She removes her pocketbook and bag from her shoulder and places them on the third chair at the table. She removes her coat and has a seat. I'm folding my paper and setting it aside while this is all going on so I don't notice her absurdly tight blouse until she sits down.

She's come prepared this time. See, the day before's ensemble was nondescript. I know this because she crossed my line of vision several times and we had a conversation and all I remember was that it was dark. Her blouse was black and so snug that had it not been for the protection my glasses provided, I would have been concerned for the safety of my eyes. The top two fastened buttons looked like they were holding on for dear life. As a matter of fact, at some point the second one merely gave in and released its grasp on the fabric, revealing a white camisole underneath. I successfully keep my eyes averted as she runs through another battery of questions.

In order to not have this spur of the moment (that being my moment, not hers) lunch seem one-sided, I ask her questions as well but the majority are ones that she's already asked of me. I say majority because I didn't inquire about her lunch the way she did mine. The whole "trading recipes" thing isn't something I do. And judging by what little she had brought in that day, it was for the best.

Somehow or other, she volunteered me to cook her something and bring it in. Yeah, I hope she was kidding because that not something I do either.

Truth be told, there are a lot of things I don't do for most people and a few things I do for a few.

Already knowing that she brought her B-game*, I wasn't too surprised when she just so happened to find it necessary to run out of the room momentarily, giving me a full show of her hip-hugging skirt and knee-high boots. I smirked a little.

Fast-forward through some more small talk and we have her standing at the table while holding a conversation with female co-workers at the next table as she takes the longest time possible to get her coat on for her 2 o'clock meeting she had to get to in the main building.

She leaves after stating she'll see me the following day - a statement I found peculiar, to say the least. I tell her okay, not knowing any other response to give.

The next day came, and I never saw her. Didn't see her for the rest of the week, actually. It was just my lunch and I. Just like I like it.


Everything I jot on the left, reads right.

*A-game isn't really possible when in a corporate environment unless both parties have consented. Otherwise, there's that whole sexual harassment suit ordeal. Ugly.