I can’t see my face no matter how hard I stare at the black corner of the computer screen. There is no irregularity, no “Picasso” look, no asymmetrical eyes. All I see is the fuzzy shape of my head. Here on the screen, I am no different than the others in the office. I’m an adult, a workingman.  

The feeling doesn’t last. Even over the keyboards’ clicking, I can hear them, and I don’t have to listen hard. One glance outside the cubicle tells me everything: they’re huddled around each other, and they’re sending a scout to come poking. She piddles around the office, pretending to do something else until she reaches my desk. I keep my head turned towards my Excel sheets. I can play pretend, too.  

She knocks, telling me her department and the office she transferred from. She also gives me her name. It’s not Sally. I go to introduce myself, but her eyes are already searching, combing through every item on my desk. I know what she wants, so I give it to her. I give it to her like I do with all the other women who come over here on their first day of snooping.  

“Oh, and this is a picture of my wife,” I say, tilting a framed photograph towards her.  

I watch her face pale. Her mouth moves like a bird is waiting to burst between her lips. She excuses herself and leaves. There is no catharsis. I anticipate the feeling with every new face, but there is nothing. I can hear her reporting back to her meerkat group.   

“I thought you were joking,” she says. “Is that even allowed?”  

They laugh. I type gibberish into the sheets just to hear some noise. 

The humiliation ritual is over. I’m in the breakroom. It’s sectioned away from the cubicles by a thin wall, but it’s never enough. One glance reminds us of the inevitable. At least there’s a vending machine. I’m told some offices don’t even have that. I can see my reflection in the machine’s glass. The shape of my head, the arches in my brow, and my lopsided eyes staring back at me. I gaze further, past my reflection and to the off-brand chips. 

I can’t afford the snacks, but the water is free. I grab a paper cup, lean against the wall, and squeeze, the feeling against my fingers all too familiar. I wonder if Sally’s still wearing the silk robe I got her. I start to imagine how she might welcome me home or ask about my day.  

My superior approaches before I have the time to get into the details. He’s always said my suit sticks to me like a wet napkin. The guy’s my senior, but anyone unfamiliar assumes it’s the other way around. They change their mind once I start talking. I’m unsure why.  

“Hey, I saw what happened this morning,” he says, keeping his head turned so it’s like an offhand comment. “You can’t keep doing this.” 

“Yeah, I know,” I give him the same response I always do.  

“It’s sad.” 

“I know.”  

He nods, and I wonder if there’s a sense of understanding. “Well, I’ll see you around.” He turns to leave, then pauses; it’s the same dance he always does: an abrupt stop and a turn of the head before he backtracks. He looks like a wind-up toy.  “Hey, I really hate to ask, but do you have another five? I forgot my lunch.” I can never afford the snacks, even for myself, but I hand him a five.

***

I’m in the parking garage, heading for the stairwell. I don’t have a car, but it’s easier than going out the front, fewer eyes and all. It’s the final tribulation of the day. The women avoid me, either by striding for their cars or sticking together in groups like meerkats. I’m reminded of what my senior told me on the day he found out about my relationship with Sally, and how he coined the term meerkat for women and their safety in groups. I’m unsure of what any of that means, but I always nod along.  

I can’t tell if it’s worse with the women or the men. With the women, I’m made into an example, but I only see them once before they retreat for the rest of the day. With the men, it’s perverse. I’m made into a spectacle, something to be gawked at, for whatever reason.  

I don’t have to listen hard. I can hear the tap of their dress shoes bouncing down the concrete. They’re like tiny firecrackers. The sound grows louder and closer until they’re on top of me. I grab the stairwell door, but they stop me, invading my space. Then come the questions–invasive and dirty.  

“I know it’s your wife,” one says. I can hear his smile grow as he goes on. “But what are you going to do if it breaks? Get a replacement?”  

“Do you wheel it around in there?” Another jumps in, pointing at my suitcase. They all laugh.  

“What if it rusts?” There is more laughter. 

“Is it one of the blowup ones?”  

“Come on, guys. Be nice.” There are too many to keep up with. “His eyes can’t even tell which direction they’re supposed to be looking in.” 

This line of questioning follows me down the steps, to the side of the building, all the way to the pavement. It’s nauseating. All I can do is keep my head down. They release me once I’m deeper into the city.  

***

I’m standing in front of my apartment door. I know that once I walk in, I can shed myself of today’s trials and tribulations. And she’ll be there–Sally–eager and ready for my embrace. I linger on the moment, barely pressing the key into the busted lock. Pure ecstasy is rising from the depths of myself until I feel prickly. I’m almost tempted to tease the lock, but I know I’ll have enough of that by the end of tonight. It’s only up from here.  

“Sally?” I call from the front door; there is no answer.I leave my suitcase and shoes at the door, then make my way down the hall, passing the taped photographs on the walls. I discard my overcoat as I round the corner and enter the kitchen. There isn’t a speck of anything on the countertops, save for all my dishes: a mug, a plate, and a fork. 

I sing her name around the apartment as I check her most predictable spots; this is our favorite game. I’ve lost my tie by this point. The living room is too open, save for our sofa and TV set. My dearest isn’t anywhere in sight.  

I remember I can never go wrong with the closet. I swing the door open, only to find my line of suits for the week. They’re all crinkled, like a napkin. I look elsewhere. The bathroom is always a good place to check–it’s a little cramped, with the toilet, sink, and tub all in a row. I’ve been saving money for some good shower curtains, since the cheap ones always mold. Maybe then I can snatch them back if Sally ever hides there, like we see in those movies. For now, it’s a bare tub. I’ve lost my socks, and she’s nowhere in sight.  

I’m dressed in nothing but my office shirt and briefs when I reach the bedroom. It’s her last spot, her favorite spot. “Sally?” I call, barely poking my head into the room.  

And there she is, in bed right where I left her this morning, and still in those silk robes. She is sitting up, with her wild red curls thrown over her shoulder and her petite hands idle by her side. She is the love of my life, even if she’s head-to-toe made of silicone. All the light in the world is in those glassy, brown eyes of hers. I crawl into bed and rest my head on her lap. It’s sturdy, and if I treat myself to a squeeze, it feels like real bone is tucked underneath. She can never compare to the cheap, plastic blowup ones that my coworkers think she is.  

“I had another rough day at work,” I tell her while I fiddle with the string to her robe. I wait, and imagine what she might say. Her voice is gentle. It’s brilliantly paced. She’s devoid of malice. There’s no voice like it, especially at the office. “Yeah, I know. I’m not supposed to let them get to me.” I grab her hand and rest it on top of my head. “Can we stay like this for a little bit? I’ll make dinner later.”  

We’re smooshed together on the sofa, watching television over our meal. I’m eating one of those microwaveable dinners, but a healthy one—the kind with mashed potatoes, green beans, and a fried steak. It’s better than the vending machine snacks at the office. Sally has her head on my shoulder, and I turn to kiss her forehead. My lips curl into an uncontrollable smile every time I do that. I kiss, and kiss, and kiss until I start laughing.  

Our favorite movies are romances–or romantic comedies, specifically. They’re always lighthearted and rarely graphic. Normally, we look up whatever is free on the TV, save for Fridays–our special rental movie days. Sally watches them for the story and the heartwarming moments, whereas I’m taking notes. I’ve learned all sorts of ways to flirt and sweep her off her feet, and sometimes, I like to imagine her pointing out the exact scene I’m taking inspiration from. We’ll laugh about it.  

The TV shakes. Heavy steps rumble on the ceiling above us. I can feel my fork tremble between my fingers. It’s the only time our quiet world is disturbed, when I can feel everything flinch as they slam doors or cabinets. The upstairs neighbors are home. They enter the scene screaming over things I can’t understand. I don’t know much about them, except that they’re a young couple. They fight loud, and they make love even louder. I’ve also learned that their bedroom is directly above ours.  

I don’t like to think about it deliberately, but I have started listening for them, now that I’ve discovered their pattern. I can line up the time I bring Sally to bed to when they start to “make up.” Then I can pretend the woman’s voice is hers. It is gentle.  

We’re in bed after an evening of love, and we’re exhausted. I’m holding her hand while she lies next to me. Even in the dim glow of the nightlight, I can see Sally’s glassy eyes. If I look further, my reflection stares back. It’s fuzzy, like the corner of the computer screen. I’m reminded of what waits for me tomorrow. If it’s not the drone of typing prices into Excel sheets, it’s the humiliation rituals. At the very least, I can hide her somewhere before I leave in the morning, then come back and find her all over again.  

“Sally, are you awake?” I wait and wonder how she might sound in her sleepy daze. It must be lovely. “What kind of movie do you want this Friday?”  

***

Morning comes and goes, and I’m in the office breakroom before I know it. I should have kissed her again before I left. My senior will be here any moment–with the same song and dance–but it’s just me and the water dispenser for now. I’m feeling the paper cup in my hand. It’s smooth like her, but there’s no sturdiness underneath. One slip and I’ve already dented it with my thumb, spilling water on my suit.  

“Oh, Christ. You’re after the cups now?” I hear someone say. I look up to see a coworker. There’s a pull in the corner of his mouth— a look of disgust. “Look, you already went and molested it. And I better not catch you screwing your cork in those.”  

I could feel my mouth hanging. Why did he take me for the unfaithful type? To run out on the love of my life for a cup? Maybe he sees it in my face, my injury, because I watch his eyebrow arch as if he’s waiting. He wants a response, so I’ll give it to him.  

Like a sharp yelp, I deliver an emphatic “No.” I can feel my voice rise over the office drivel; it shakes in my throat. In the corner of my eye, I see heads peer over cubicles. I’m a moment too late before it all registers. Words keep spilling, but I feel my voice fade as I go on: “I’m not that kind of…” I don’t have the strength to say person under his stare, under everyone’s scrutiny.  

My coworker’s hard look is gone. Instead, he starts laughing. The sound makes me burn under my suit, and I can’t bring myself to look him in the eye. I can feel him getting closer until he leans in just over my shoulder.  

“Don’t raise your voice at me, you disabled shit,” he tells me under his breath. I flinch with every word until my head sinks in between my shoulders. “One report to HR, and you’ll be lucky if you can coast on welfare for the rest of your life.” I’m reminded why I should just nod along. Today’s humiliation feels earned. He pulls away and leaves with his back turned, but I can still feel eyes on me. They poke through my suit until I am naked to their judgment. I step back into the breakroom’s thin wall and crumble into a space between the corner and the vending machine. The cup is still in my hand.  

I try to wonder what Sally is doing, what she’s wearing, and how I’ll find her when I can shed my office life at the front door. I want to rest my head in her lap, to place her hand on my head, and to watch movies on the sofa with her.  

“Hey, I saw what happened.” It’s my senior. The daydream is gone. He’s standing in front of the vending machine, looking at all the snacks, so it seems like an offhand comment. “That was rough.” 

“I know.” I want to bury myself in my hands.  

“Look, I like your efficiency at the office,” he tells me. “You get everything filed without a fuss. You work late to get things done. We like that. But you really can’t keep doing this.” All I can do is nod along. I can feel the frustration in his voice as he goes on: “And I don’t know if this is a fetish or if you’re just lonely…” He trails, and in the corner of my eye, I can feel him looking at me. “But you need to talk to real women. You can’t have a picture of that thing on your desk. It’s not work-appropriate.”  

I can’t face him, and I can’t muster the words. He speaks with the authority of something I can’t begin to approach. I just nod. My suit, as crinkled as it is, feels too big for me.  

“But I’m willing to meet you halfway,” My senior says. “You’ve had that thing for, what? Five years now?”  

“And three months.” The words barely pass between my lips.  

“Yeah. That’s five years and three months of not talking to real women. Lucky for you,” he pauses, pulling out his wallet. He rummages through it, running his fingers through the ends of various cards like it’s a filing cabinet. He draws out a thin slip and shows it to me: it’s a photograph. “My family’s looking to find someone for my cousin. She’s around your age, say thirty-one, and more your speed.”  

I don’t understand much of what he’s saying, but I try my best to hide my furrowed brow. Does my devotion mean nothing to these people? It’s one thing if they ask for the picture to go down, but they want our marriage gone entirely. I can’t begin to reason with it.  

He motions for me to take the picture, and I do. She’s a brunette with long, straight hair. She smiles with a full set of teeth, and her eyes sit nearly mushed together on her face–lopsided, separated by a thin line of skin. I look at the vending machine’s metal side and try to catch my reflection in the sheen; it’s too fuzzy, but the feeling remains all the same.  

My senior takes the photo and slides it back into his wallet. “Yeah, we’ve been talking about it for a while. I figured you were the better option, the safer option, since we work together. I can keep an eye on things.”  

There is nothing to say. It’s like I’m being transferred to another department or a line of business I’m unfamiliar with. Every muscle in my body tells me to reject it, to say no, but my mouth can’t form the word. I keep my head down and wonder how I’ll explain any of this to Sally. She might know what to do. I try to imagine how gentle her voice sounds.  

“I’m thinking you two could meet this Friday,” he goes on, and I’m left to crumble further into myself. I’m a box being shipped far away. “You know, test the waters. See if you click.”  

“Okay.”  

He smiles at me. It’s the first. “This could be a big opportunity for you, Ian.” He reaches over and pats my shoulder before he goes to leave. It doesn’t take long for him to return. “By the way, think I could borrow another five?” He knocks on the vending machine class.  

  “Okay.”  

***

I’m standing in front of my apartment door without the energy to raise my head to the busted lock. There is no ecstasy. This evening, I’ve earned several new names, all dirty and perverse: Cup fucker, plastic man, micro-plastic, and others I don’t remember how to pronounce.  

“Sally? I’m home,” I call from the front door, but I doubt my voice reaches past the entrance. I’ve already kicked off my shoes and discarded my suitcase. There is no thrill for hide-and-seek. I trek down the hall, past the taped photographs, but not without stopping to give them a look. It’s us, our lives laid in an assembly of pictures. Birthdays, movie night dates, and a few milestones of paycheck raises. At the far end is the only picture of our outing on the town: in the park at night, where any late passerby assumed Sally was sleeping next to me on the bench under the streetlight. It was the first time we felt like a normal couple. I hope for a future where there are more of these photographs.  

I continue until I round the corner of the kitchen and find Sally sitting on the counter, dressed in velvety pink pajamas and her legs dangling over the edge. It’s like she knew, and she set herself there as soon as I came. Her eyes are loving and full of warmth, as if she’s saying, “Welcome home.” And her face, her silky face, I just have to hold again. I cup her cheeks and press my forehead to hers. It’s sturdy yet soft, like a delicate skull lies tucked under her silicone skin. It’s so wonderfully feminine. How could anyone in the world want to take such a heavenly sight away?  

I kiss wherever I can reach: her lips, the corner of her mouth, her nose, the bridge between her eyes– it doesn’t matter. Sometimes, I grab her head and press it to mine, pretending she can kiss back. She must be so confused right now. I imagine what she might sound like between each embrace. Maybe she’d ask a question while she giggles.  

“I’ll tell you over dinner,” I say between breaths. “Just let me hold you a little longer.”

It’s the hardest conversation we’ve had in our marriage, but I swallow my dread and tell Sally everything, from the outburst to my senior’s offer. For the betterment of our relationship, there can’t be any secrets between us. I can’t picture five or ten years down the line in a marriage full of secrecy.  

I try to imagine what she says during this. Maybe she’s flattered that the little things remind me of her, like the smoothness of a cup. I imagine how tickled she is to hear how devoted I am, how I defended our love from baseless accusations. And she’s getting all teary-eyed over my beatdown today, I bet. I set my plate aside and embrace her, comfort her, and tell her I handled it all as an adult should.  

Then comes the hard part, the part I can barely string together into anything coherent. Yet her voice is all the same; gentle and patient. It guides me every step of the way. My explanation is only interrupted by the sound of shattered glass. The neighbors are home.  

I don’t have the desire to listen to their lovemaking; we have a situation to get through. It’s easier to explain things over running water, where the shower blurs some of the noise above. Still, even five years into our relationship, I can’t ever shake the timidness whenever I undress in front of her. I’m so flustered I can hardly contain my laughter, so I ask her to look away momentarily. I just about melt when it’s her turn.  

So long as I lean her against the tub’s wall, Sally can stand on her own. We talk over soap suds, scrubbing, and the faulty water temperature. And while our planning diverts and we’re distracted by our bodies barely covered in foam, we still have a plan for Friday: I’ll go along with my senior’s wishes, meeting the girl and all, but she’ll know by the end of the night that I have no interest. I’ll just need to rehearse it all. We’ll have to skip our movie day this week. Maybe it will do us some good; it’s hard to shower without curtains.  

***

I’m cautiously optimistic. I’ve been lying low these past few days since my outburst. I keep at my desk, and if I need some movement, I stretch in my cubicle. I haven’t set foot in the breakroom once, and as a final gesture, I’ve also removed any photographs of Sally around my space. I keep them in my suitcase, only cracking it open for a peek when I’m feeling lonely. The sight of her glassy eyes is nothing short of bliss. My desk feels emptier, stripped of myself and my life. It’s like I’m new at the office, but it’s for the better.  

My coworkers have also started to notice, and maybe my tribulations are paying off. Whenever they pass by, combing my desk for the items they deem so absurd, they find nothing. There is less laughter, scouting, and fewer invasive comments between the walls.  

However, a new ritual has started. Instead of meeting me in the breakroom, my senior pops his head around the corner. He slips in, carrying a stack of paper, then acts like he’s about to drop it on my desk, but he never does; it’s just an excuse to drop new details about the date. He has it all arranged, planned from the time I get off work to when I meet his cousin at the restaurant. He sounds so assertive that I sometimes wonder if it’s already happened.  

“And remember, what are you wearing tonight?” he quizzes.  

“The overcoat in the backseat,” I say.  

“Attaboy.” And he pats my shoulder. I watch him go, and by the time he comes back, I already have the five-dollar bill on my desk.  

I continue working. Fridays are usually a half day, but my senior wants me to stay later so we can leave together. There’s still a burning in my stomach I can’t shake. I keep thinking about how I should be browsing the movie selection right now. My fingers keep missing the keys.  

It’s quiet, and I miss the sound of machines and dial-up tones. They complete the buzzing fluorescent lights above. But with them gone, the droning hums feel empty. I hope Sally’s doing okay back home. I try to imagine what she’s doing. Is she watching television alone? The image eats at me until there’s a hole. I wonder if I can feel it if I touch my side.  

“Ready to go?” I hear from the other end of my desk. I don’t have to look up from the computer screen. I grab my suitcase and grip the handle with all the voracity in the world. I grip it until it hurts; it’s all I have of her until I’m back home.  

This is the first time in a decade that I’ve been in a car. Everything feels like uncharted territory. When I slide into the backseat, I’m careful not to touch anything and set my suitcase in my lap, as large as it is. The overcoat is hanging from the emergency handle on the other side. I can’t help but treat myself to another peek at Sally’s photographs. It’s refreshing, and I’m anew.  

I can feel his stare through the rearview mirror. “Now, it goes without saying, but don’t mention it to her,” he tells me as we pull out of the parking garage. “I know you’re a little slow, and things don’t click for you, but I don’t need you freaking her out.”  

I sink into myself, but I still nod.  

“And hey, if all goes well, you can trash it.”  

I wonder if swallowing my watch could kill me.  

***

There hasn’t been a need to go out since I met Sally. We’re content with our microwavable dinners; yet, as I step out of the car with the temporary overcoat for the night, I look with a new longing: to bring her here, her arm locked in mine, and treat ourselves to something fancy and adult, something where we need reservations. I still hold out for that kind of future.  

We meet the family inside, and I use my senior as a shield. New people are a terrifying sight, and my coat feels too cumbersome. Everyone laughs and talks about things I don’t understand. I can see his cousin linger behind her shields, too. I’m not sure what kind of restaurant this is supposed to be, but by the red lights and striped walls, I assume Italian or Mexican. It’s irrelevant, anyway. I can’t imagine a dinner without Sally.  

My senior leaves with the family as soon as we’re seated. It’s a quiet booth off in the corner, away from the birthday tables and company outings. I make an effort to peel my eyes off my suitcase and to the woman in front of me.  

The photograph missed some key details. Her face is anything but smooth; instead, it’s a rocky surface with deep crevices. I’m reminded of worms wriggling in apples. She looks like she hasn’t smiled in a long time, with a permanent knot between her eyebrows and two lines stretching from her nose to her chin. Her eyes are still smooshed together, though.  

She tells me her name, but it’s not Sally. I hide my grimace and introduce myself behind a workingman’s handshake. Her hand is warm, unnaturally so, as if she oozes off heat. When she curls her fingers around my hand, I can feel real bone, muscle, and flesh all working underneath. I’m not prepared, and my breath leaves me faster than I realize.  

We make small talk over the free water and bread. It must be an Italian place; from what I’ve seen in movies, the Mexican ones offer chips. She tells me her interests, hobbies, and things I would be listening to if I weren’t a married man. It’s like the office’s fluorescent hum. At some point, she orders appetizers. I bide my time, waiting for the opportunity to reenact the script I’ve been rehearsing this week. I can already picture Sally in my arms when I open the door.  

“I can’t do this,” I hear over the monotony. “I just can’t.” I feel myself straighten without realizing. This tone is something I’ve never heard. It doesn’t sound like the office women, who play pretend and laugh later, but it’s also not Sally, who is gentle and loving. I can’t reason with it, but the crack in her voice stirs something in me. I feel like I should be doing something. Moving.  

The woman across from me hides herself behind the utensil cloth. “I’m sorry.” She chokes and takes a breath to collect herself. “It’s just that this is the sixth or seventh date.” Her face twists and reddens, and her smooshed eyes squeeze shut until they look like a solid line across her face. “And I’m sure you’re polite and nice.” Sometimes, her sentences don’t even go anywhere, but I’m waiting with a held breath. “But please don’t make me go home with you. I can’t…” she trails, and waits to recover so she can begin again. “I can’t work, so they want someone to take care of me.” Her brows twist until the knots between them double, and she peels her lips into a grimace. “But I’ve been trying, I’ve applied. So, please. Don’t make me.” She falls still and quiet. 

I brace for whenever she starts again, but she never does. It’s only now that I realize I’ve been sitting upright and pressed deep into the seat. My rehearsal is gone. There is only relief in her silence, but sometimes, I’ll catch the rise and fall of her shoulders when she sighs another sob. It makes me flinch. I’m facing something I can’t even begin to approach.  

The appetizers arrive. I don’t know how long I’ve spent staring at the woman crumpled in front of me. She has yet to move; it might kill me if she did. I search for refuge in something and notice a window to my right. There’s the fuzzy shape of my reflection in the glass, vague but normal and adult. There is no “Picasso,” just the sharp outline of the coat.  

By the end of the night, my senior is expecting something out of both of us, so I give it to him. I slide out of the booth and start to remove my overcoat. “Tell them we had a nice date.” 

“What?” She can barely lift her head off the table.  

“And say it’s our next one when you get an interview.” As I hang the coat on the booth, I notice her straighten out. Her face, her pitted and coarse face, covered in tears and running with snot, gives way to a single, precious sight: a smile. It’s like it relieved all the tension in her brow, and she almost unravels all over again. There’s something naked about it all.  

***

I spent the night walking home. A shower can wait until morning. I’m lying in bed, holding Sally from behind. I tell her, through sleepy words about the date: what happened, how it ended, and so on. There’s no telling what my senior will do when he eventually finds out, but I don’t want to think about it. Right now, I want to treasure this night with the love of my life. I squeeze her hand in mine, but it’s limp; I have to wait until it warms. There is no real muscle or bone, nothing to ooze heat. I turn her head towards mine and stare at the still, sterile smoothness of her face. Something stirs in the back of my mind, and I think about the crevices, the knots, the way a lip quivers when it gives way to a sob, and all the rawness that comes from a single smile.  

Even after we’re warm under the blankets, I can’t make peace with it. So, I crawl out of bed and into the kitchen, where I find the fork still next to my line of dishes. There is still that beating, bare feeling until I’m prickly all over.  

As I climb back into the covers and on top of Sally, I try to imagine what she would look and feel like with it all. She won’t remind me of a paper cup, but of the hand I shook that evening. I run my hand down the back of her head and start to kiss wherever I can reach: her cheeks, her nose, her chin. Then, I’ll take the fork and poke tiny holes in her skin, and kiss the spot again and again. It’s raw.    “I think we can finally start to feel like a real couple,” I tell her, and I’m sure she’s never felt so blissful. I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of her eye, and if I stare hard enough, I can see my lopsided eyes looking back. 

Alaina Bordeaux is an American critter and comic artist from North Carolina. She loves a good oddball at the front of her stories and is always mapping out how that character sees the world; she wants them to feel lived-in, not a stranger.