Soleful Secret

I pressed myself flat against the industrial carpet. The fibers scratched my cheek. A faint smell of coffee grounds and floor cleaner filled my nostrils. My heart hammered so hard I was certain she could hear it from her desk.

Three feet above me, Sarah Chen tapped her pen against a spreadsheet. The sound was a metronome. Tap. Tap. Tap. She was deciding something. I didn't know what. I didn't care. I just needed to stay quiet until she left for her three o'clock.

I had made a mistake. A stupid, rookie mistake. I had dropped my car keys during the morning meeting. They had skittered under her desk like a frightened animal. I had watched them disappear beneath the mahogany lip, watched them settle next to the power strip and the tangle of cables. I had told myself I would grab them at lunch. But lunch had come and gone and Sarah Chen had not left her desk. She had eaten a salad at her computer, her eyes fixed on quarterly projections, her fork scraping the plastic container with mechanical precision.

Now it was two fifty-seven. Her meeting was in three minutes. I could wait. I could breathe shallow. I could stay perfectly still.

I was wrong.

She pushed her chair back. The wheels rolled over my fingers. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from yelping. The pain was sharp and clean and it focused me. She stood up. Her heels clicked on the linoleum. She was wearing her black pumps, the ones with the red soles. I knew those shoes. I had seen them a hundred times, lined up by her door, kicked off after long days, placed neatly beside her umbrella stand.

She walked around the desk. I heard her open the mini-fridge. The hum of the compressor filled the silence. She was getting water. She was getting water and then she would leave and I would grab my keys and this would be a funny story I told no one.

She did not get water.

She walked back to her chair. But she did not sit down. She stood beside it. I could see the back of her calves, the seam of her stockings running straight up from her heel. She was wearing nylons. She always wore nylons. She was old-fashioned that way. She said they made her feel professional. She said they reminded her of her mother, who had worn them every day of her working life, who had taught her that presentation was everything.

I watched the seam. I watched the way it bisected her calf with geometric precision. I watched the fabric catch the fluorescent light, turning it from matte to glossy with every tiny movement of her muscles.

Then she lifted her foot.

She lifted her foot and she placed it on the edge of the desk. She was stretching. She was stretching her hamstring. She did this sometimes. I had seen her do it in the hallway, one foot on the water cooler, her body leaning forward, her face a mask of concentration. It was a runner's stretch. She ran marathons. She had the medals on her office wall, next to her diplomas and her awards for quarterly performance.

But she did not put her foot on the desk.

She put her foot on my face.

The sole of her pump pressed against my cheek. The leather was warm. It smelled like shoe polish and pavement and something else, something faintly chemical, something that made my eyes water. She pushed. She pushed my face into the carpet. I felt the fibers crush against my nose. I felt the pressure of her full weight, the weight of a woman who ran marathons, who had thighs that could crack walnuts, who had once lifted a filing cabinet to retrieve a dropped paperclip.

I did not move.

I could not move.

If I moved, she would know. She would look down and see me, a grown man cowering under her desk, and she would scream. She would call security. She would have me fired. She would have me arrested. I would lose my job, my apartment, my life. All because of a pair of car keys.

So I stayed still.

She shifted her weight. Her heel dug into my cheekbone. The pressure was specific, almost surgical. She was using my face as a footstool. She was using my face as a footstool and she did not know it. She thought she was resting her foot on the edge of her desk. She thought she was stretching. She thought she was alone in her office with her spreadsheets and her water bottle and her quiet hum of satisfaction at a job well done.

But she was not alone.

I was there.

I was there and I could smell her. I could smell the nylon against my skin. I could smell the faint trace of sweat, the salt of her body, the perfume she wore, something floral and expensive, something that made me think of gardens I had never seen. I could smell the leather of her shoe. I could smell the carpet cleaner. I could smell my own fear, sharp and metallic, coating the roof of my mouth.

She wiggled her foot. The movement was small, unconscious. She was settling in. She was getting comfortable. She had no idea that her comfort was built on the architecture of my face.

I closed my eyes.

I told myself to breathe. I told myself to count. One. Two. Three. Four. I could do this. I could survive this. I had survived worse. I had survived my father's rages. I had survived my mother's silence. I had survived three years of college on ramen and determination. I could survive three minutes under Sarah Chen's foot.

But she did not leave.

She picked up her phone. She dialed. I heard the beeps, each one a small death. She was calling someone. She was canceling her meeting. She was staying.

"Hi, Mark. Yeah, I'm going to have to reschedule. Something came up."

Something came up. Something came up and that something was my face. My face had come up under her foot. My face had become a piece of office furniture. My face had been repurposed without my consent.

I wanted to laugh. I wanted to scream. I wanted to reach up and grab her ankle and pull her down to my level and explain. Explain that I was not a footstool. Explain that I was a person. Explain that I had a name and a job title and a mother who worried about me. Explain that I had dropped my keys and I was sorry and I would never do it again if she would just please, please, please lift her foot.

But I did not move.

I stayed still.

She hung up. She put the phone down. She sighed. It was a long sigh, the sigh of a woman who carried the weight of the world on her shoulders and had just added a few more pounds. She leaned forward. Her weight shifted. The heel of her pump pressed deeper into my cheek. I felt the bone grind against the leather. I felt the pressure build.

Then she took her foot off my face.

I almost cried with relief.

But then she sat down.

She sat down and she pushed her chair back and she lifted her other foot. She lifted her other foot and she placed it on my face. Both feet now. Both feet on my face. She was using my face as a footstool with both feet. She had found a comfortable position. She had settled in. She was going to stay.

I opened my eyes.

I could see the underside of her desk. I could see the power strip. I could see my keys, glinting in the dim light, inches from my hand. I could see the cables and the dust and the forgotten paperclips. I could see the world from a new perspective. I could see it from the perspective of a footstool.

Her left foot was on my right cheek. Her right foot was on my left cheek. Her heels were digging into my jaw. Her toes were pressing against my temples. She was wearing nylons and the fabric was thin and I could feel the heat of her skin through it. I could feel the texture of her calluses. I could feel the small bones of her feet, the metatarsals and the phalanges, the architecture of her body pressing down on the architecture of mine.

She was reading something. I could hear the rustle of paper. She was reading a report. She was frowning. I could tell from the way her feet shifted, the way her toes curled and uncurled. She was unhappy with what she was reading. She was going to make someone pay.

Someone was me.

I was the one who had written that report. I was the one who had spent three days compiling the data, double-checking the figures, formatting the charts. I was the one who had stayed late, who had missed dinner with my sister, who had drunk cold coffee and eaten stale granola bars. I was the one who had presented the report to her that morning, who had watched her nod along, who had thought she was satisfied.

She was not satisfied.

She was very, very dissatisfied.

She shifted her weight again. Her left foot pressed harder. Her right foot relaxed. She was thinking. She was thinking about my report. She was thinking about the numbers. She was thinking about what she was going to say to me when she saw me next.

She had no idea I was already there.

She had no idea I was under her desk.

She had no idea that her feet were on my face and that I could feel every tiny movement of her muscles, every adjustment of her weight, every thought that passed through her body and into mine.

I should have been terrified.

I was terrified.

But I was also something else.

I was aware.

I was aware of her in a way I had never been aware of anyone. I was aware of the shape of her feet. I was aware of the way her arches curved. I was aware of the way her toes spread when she relaxed. I was aware of the way her heels dug in when she was angry. I was aware of the way her weight shifted when she made a decision. I was aware of her breathing. I was aware of her heartbeat. I could feel it through the soles of her feet, through the fabric of her nylons, through the skin of my face. It was a steady rhythm. A metronome. A clock ticking down to something I could not name.

She read the report.

She finished the report.

She put it down.

She picked up her phone again.

"Marcus? It's Sarah. I need you in my office. Now."

Marcus was my boss. Marcus was the vice president of operations. Marcus was a large man with a loud voice and a short temper. Marcus was going to come into this office and find me under Sarah Chen's desk with her feet on my face.

I was going to die.

I was going to die and it was going to be embarrassing.

I tried to move. I tried to shift my weight. I tried to slide out from under her feet. But she was heavy. She was strong. She had her full weight on my face and I could not move. I could not breathe. I could not do anything but lie there and wait for Marcus to arrive.

Marcus arrived.

He knocked on the door. One. Two. Three. Firm. Professional. The knock of a man who knew his place in the world and was comfortable with it.

"Come in," Sarah said.

The door opened. I heard Marcus's footsteps. I heard the creak of his shoes. I heard him stop. I heard him clear his throat.

"You wanted to see me?"

"Yes. Close the door."

The door closed. The lock clicked. We were alone. The three of us. Sarah. Marcus. And me. Under the desk. Under her feet.

"I read the quarterly report," Sarah said.

"Ah. Yes. The quarterly report."

"It's wrong."

"Wrong?"

"The projections are off. The data is incomplete. The analysis is sloppy."

"I see."

"Do you? Do you see, Marcus? Because I don't think you do. I think you delegated this to someone else. I think you didn't read it before you sent it to me. I think you assumed I wouldn't notice."

"Sarah, I..."

"Don't. Don't make excuses. I want the person who wrote this report in my office. Now."

"That would be David."

David. My name. David. I was David. I was the person who wrote the report. I was the person who was currently under her desk. I was the person whose face was being used as a footstool by the woman who wanted to see me.

"Get him."

"He's not at his desk."

"Find him."

"Sarah, I..."

"Find him, Marcus. I want to see David. I want to see him in my office. I want to see him explain this report. I want to see him look me in the eye and tell me why he thinks I'm stupid."

"I don't think you're stupid."

"Then find him."

Marcus left. The door closed. The lock clicked. Sarah sighed again. She shifted her weight. Her feet pressed deeper into my face.

I was going to die.

I was going to die and it was going to be ironic. I was going to die because I had written a bad report. I was going to die because I had dropped my keys. I was going to die because Sarah Chen had a temper and a marathon runner's calves and a habit of using my face as a footstool.

But I did not die.

She lifted her feet.

She lifted her feet and she stood up. She stood up and she walked to the window. She stood at the window and she looked out at the city. She was thinking. She was thinking about the report. She was thinking about me. She was thinking about what she was going to say when Marcus found me.

But Marcus was not going to find me.

Because I was going to get out from under this desk.

I crawled. I crawled on my hands and knees. I crawled out from under the desk. I crawled past the chair. I crawled past the mini-fridge. I crawled toward the door.

I made it.

I made it to the door. I reached up. I turned the handle. I opened the door. I stepped into the hallway.

And I ran.

I ran down the hallway. I ran past the cubicles. I ran past the break room. I ran past the water cooler. I ran until I reached the stairwell. I ran down the stairs. I ran out the emergency exit. I ran into the parking lot.

I found my car. I got in. I started the engine. I drove.

I drove for an hour. I drove without direction. I drove until the city was a blur in my rearview mirror. I drove until I was on a highway, surrounded by fields and trees and sky.

I pulled over.

I stopped the car.

I sat.

I sat and I thought about what had happened. I thought about Sarah Chen's feet on my face. I thought about the feel of her nylons. I thought about the smell of her perfume. I thought about the way she had shifted her weight, the way she had settled in, the way she had used me without knowing she was using me.

I should have been angry.

I should have been ashamed.

I should have been grateful to have escaped.

But I was not angry. I was not ashamed. I was not grateful.

I was something else.

I was curious.

I was curious about what would have happened if I had stayed. I was curious about what would have happened if she had found me. I was curious about what would have happened if she had known.

I was curious about her.

I was curious about Sarah Chen.

I was curious about the woman who used my face as a footstool and did not know it.

I wanted to know more.

I wanted to know everything.

I wanted to go back.

I wanted to go back and I wanted to crawl under her desk and I wanted to wait for her to come back and I wanted to feel her feet on my face again.

I wanted it more than I had ever wanted anything.

It was wrong.

It was so wrong.

But it was true.

I turned the car around. I drove back to the office. I parked in the same spot. I walked through the same doors. I took the same elevator. I walked down the same hallway.

I stopped at her door.

It was closed.

I knocked.

One. Two. Three. Firm. Professional. The knock of a man who knew his place in the world and was comfortable with it.

"Come in," she said.

I opened the door.

She was sitting at her desk. She was reading the report. She looked up. She looked at me. Her eyes were dark. Her face was unreadable.

"David," she said.

"Sarah," I said.

"Close the door."

I closed the door.

"Lock it."

I locked it.

"Sit down."

I sat down. I sat in the chair across from her desk. I sat and I looked at her. I looked at her feet. She was still wearing the black pumps. She was still wearing the nylons. She had not changed.

"I read your report," she said.

"I know."

"It's wrong."

"I know."

"Do you know why it's wrong?"

"Because I didn't check the data. Because I assumed the projections were correct. Because I was lazy."

"Lazy."

"Yes."

"Is that the only reason?"

"No."

"What is the other reason?"

"I was distracted."

"Distracted by what?"

I looked at her. I looked at her feet. I looked at the space under her desk. I looked at the carpet where I had lain. I looked at the spot where my face had pressed into the fibers.

"I was distracted by you," I said.

She leaned back in her chair. She crossed her legs. She looked at me. She looked at me with those dark eyes, those unreadable eyes, those eyes that had seen everything and revealed nothing.

"Distracted by me," she said.

"Yes."

"How?"

I took a breath. I took a breath and I told her the truth. I told her about the keys. I told her about the morning meeting. I told her about the skittering sound. I told her about the power strip. I told her about the carpet fibers. I told her about the coffee grounds and the floor cleaner. I told her about the metronome of her pen. I told her about the three o'clock meeting. I told her about the stretch. I told her about the foot. I told her about the pressure. I told her about the nylons. I told her about the perfume. I told her about the calluses. I told her about the bones. I told her about the heat. I told her about the sweat. I told her about the salt. I told her about the taste. I told her about the fear. I told her about the curiosity. I told her about the wanting.

I told her everything.

She listened.

She listened without moving. She listened without speaking. She listened with those dark eyes fixed on mine. She listened until I was done.

Then she stood up.

She walked around the desk. She stood in front of me. She looked down at me. She looked down at me and she smiled.

It was not a nice smile.

It was a smile that said she knew something I did not. It was a smile that said she had been waiting for this. It was a smile that said she had known all along.

"David," she said.

"Sarah," I said.

"Get under the desk."

I did not move.

"Get under the desk," she said again. "Now."

I stood up. I walked around her. I got on my hands and knees. I crawled under the desk. I pressed myself flat against the carpet. I felt the fibers scratch my cheek. I smelled the coffee grounds and the floor cleaner.

She sat down.

She pushed her chair back.

She lifted her feet.

She placed them on my face.

She placed her left foot on my right cheek. She placed her right foot on my left cheek. She settled in. She got comfortable.

"Now," she said. "Let's talk about the report."

She picked up the paper. She started reading. She read aloud. She read every mistake. She read every error. She read every miscalculation.

Her feet pressed into my face.

Her nylons brushed against my skin.

Her heels dug into my jaw.

Her toes curled and uncurled.

She read.

She read and I listened.

I listened and I felt.

I felt her weight. I felt her heat. I felt her breath. I felt her heartbeat. I felt her anger. I felt her satisfaction. I felt her control.

I was under her desk.

I was under her feet.

I was where I belonged.

She finished reading. She put down the paper. She leaned back. She sighed.

"David," she said.

"Sarah," I said.

"You're going to rewrite this report."

"Yes."

"You're going to do it tonight."

"Yes."

"You're going to do it under my desk."

"Yes."

"You're going to do it with my feet on your face."

"Yes."

"Good."

She shifted her weight. She got comfortable. She picked up her phone. She dialed.

"Marcus? It's Sarah. I found David. We're working on the report. Don't disturb us."

She hung up. She put down the phone. She crossed her ankles.

Her feet pressed into my face.

Her nylons whispered against my skin.

She was warm. She was heavy. She was real.

I was under her desk.

I was under her feet.

I was where I belonged.

And I was never going to leave.