Cubicle Clandestine

The elevator doors slid shut with a soft hiss, sealing us in a capsule of brushed steel and recycled air. At 7:42 on a Tuesday morning, the building belonged to the cleaning crew and the ambitious. I was neither.

Neither was he.

Marcus stood on the opposite side of the car, back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest like he was guarding something. His tie was already loosened, the top button of his shirt undone. It was too early for that kind of surrender. Or too late. Depends on how you looked at it.

I stared at the numbers ticking upward. Four. Five. Six.

"You're early," he said.

"So are you."

"Couldn't sleep."

I didn't ask why. I didn't have to. The answer was standing three feet away from me, radiating heat like a furnace with a bad attitude.

Seven. Eight. The car lurched slightly between floors, a mechanical hiccup that made my stomach drop. I gripped the handrail. Marcus didn't move.

"We should talk about yesterday," he said.

"No."

"Elena."

"Don't." I turned to face him. The fluorescent lights above us buzzed like trapped insects. "We're in an elevator. On our way to work. Where you're my supervisor and I'm your subordinate and there are approximately forty-seven cameras between this car and my desk."

"Forty-two," he said. "I counted."

Of course he did. Marcus counted everything. Steps between his office and mine. Minutes until the next board meeting. The number of times we'd almost gotten caught. That last one was climbing faster than either of us wanted to admit.

The elevator stopped at twelve. The doors opened. A woman in a gray suit stepped in, clutching a travel mug and a folder stuffed with papers. She nodded at Marcus, then at me, then buried her face in her phone. We rode the rest of the way in silence.

I got off at fifteen. Marcus stayed on. We didn't look at each other. That was the rule. No eye contact in public, no lingering glances, no accidental touches that weren't accidents at all. We'd perfected the art of ignoring each other. It was the only thing keeping us employed.

My office was a glass box at the end of a hallway that smelled like burnt coffee and ambition. I dropped my bag on the desk, booted up my computer, and stared at the email that had been waiting for me since 6:15 that morning.

From: Marcus Webb

Subject: Q3 Projections

Elena,

Need the revised numbers by end of day. Also, the Henderson account is requesting a face-to-face. I've scheduled it for Thursday at 2. You'll be there.

M.

I read it three times. The words were professional, clipped, exactly what a supervisor would send to a subordinate. Nothing in there about the way his hands had felt on my hips in the parking garage last Friday. Nothing about the way he'd said my name when we were alone, low and rough, like it hurt him to say it.

I typed back: Confirmed. Numbers by 5.

Then I deleted the period after Confirmed and replaced it with a comma. Then I deleted the comma and put the period back. Then I closed my email and got to work.

The morning passed in a blur of spreadsheets and conference calls. I ate a granola bar at my desk for lunch. At 1:30, my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number. That was our system. Burner phones, prepaid, no names. He'd bought them from a drugstore two towns over. I'd laughed when he'd handed me mine, a cheap flip phone that felt like a relic from 2004.

The text said: Roof. 10 min.

I didn't respond. I just stood up, grabbed my coat, and walked to the elevator like I was heading to a meeting. Nobody looked up. Nobody ever did.

The roof access door was propped open with a brick. Marcus was standing at the edge, looking out over the city. The wind whipped his hair across his forehead. He didn't turn when I walked up beside him.

"This is risky," I said.

"Everything's risky."

"You said you counted the cameras. You know there's one on this door."

"I disabled it."

I laughed, short and sharp. "You disabled it. Just like that."

"Took me twenty minutes. The wiring's old. Nobody's checked the feed in months."

"You're insane."

He turned then. His eyes were the color of whiskey, warm and dangerous. "I'm in love with you. There's a difference."

The words hit me like a punch to the sternum. We'd never said that. We'd said other things, things that meant the same but didn't sound as heavy. Things like I can't stop thinking about you and This is a bad idea and Don't stop. But never that. Never the big one.

"Marcus."

"I know." He stepped closer. The wind pushed us together, or maybe that was just an excuse. "I know what you're going to say. You're going to say we can't. You're going to say it's too dangerous. You're going to say I have a wife."

"You have a wife."

"I know."

"And two kids."

"I know."

"And a mortgage and a 401k and a reputation that would implode if anyone found out about us."

"I know, Elena." His hand found mine. His fingers were cold. "I know all of it. I've run the numbers. I've done the math. And I still can't make myself care."

I pulled my hand away. Not because I wanted to. Because I had to. Because if I held on for one more second, I'd never let go.

"Thursday," I said. "The Henderson meeting. Is that real, or is that just an excuse to get me alone?"

"Both."

"You're unbelievable."

"I'm practical." He smiled, and it was the kind of smile that made me want to hit him and kiss him in equal measure. "We need to talk about what happens next. Not here. Not on a roof. Somewhere we can actually think."

"There's no somewhere. That's the whole problem."

"There's always somewhere."

I shook my head. The city sprawled out below us, indifferent and enormous. Somewhere down there, his wife was probably picking up the kids from school. Somewhere down there, my career was hanging by a thread I'd frayed myself. Somewhere down there, a thousand people were living their lives without this particular brand of chaos.

I envied every single one of them.

"Thursday," I said. "Two o'clock. The Henderson meeting."

"I'll be there."

"You'd better be." I turned toward the door. "And Marcus?"

"Yeah?"

"Fix the camera feed. If anyone checks, I was never here."

He didn't answer. He didn't have to. We both knew the truth. I was always here. Even when I wasn't. Even when I tried not to be. That was the problem. That had always been the problem.

The stairwell door clicked shut behind me. I stood in the dark for a moment, letting my eyes adjust, letting my heart slow down. Then I walked back to my desk and pretended the rest of the day was normal.

It wasn't. It never was.