“So, what does your boyfriend do? I mean, the guy that picked you up on Wednesday. I’m assuming he’s your boyfriend, right?” Jesus. I do not want to do this. I do not want to talk about this.
“Well,” I say without taking my eyes off the papers in front of me, “I wouldn’t really call him my boyfriend, per se, but I guess you could say that he is. Kind of, I mean. He’s a carpenter.”
“Oh,” Matt says, with what I think is a mix of holier-than-thou-attitude and disdain. “A carpenter, huh? How long have you guys been together?”
“Not long.” I am getting irritated already.
“He, um, he seems like an interesting guy.” Matt is fishing for something, but I can’t tell what. “He seems pretty intense, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say, lifting my head and looking right at Matt. “Look, Matt, is there some point you’re trying to get to here? Because if there is, you can just say it. Or you can ask me about it. Or whatever.” He is staring at me with his eyes wide and his mouth slightly open. I immediately regret being so blunt. I don’t think Matt knows what to do with blunt.
Matt closes his mouth and swallows. His eyes narrow, and he leans over and quietly says, “My point, Emma, is simply to make conversation. There is no underlying motive. I’m not trying to make the moves on you. I’m not trying to be your best friend. I’m just here to do my job, to make sure things go smoothly, and to make you feel welcome here. And, for most people, conversations are a part of the work day. If you don’t want to talk, that’s fine with me. But say so. Don’t dole out the attitude without giving me some sort of warning first.” Now it is me who is standing here with my eyes wide and my mouth open. I didn’t think he had it in him. Shit.
“Look, Matt, I’m a pretty private person. I don’t like chitchat. I’m not patient. I’m not understanding. And I’m not a very good listener. It’s not that I don’t care about you—as a person, I mean—it’s just that I don’t get the point of it all.”
“The point of it all,” he says with irritation, “is to get through an eight-hour work day in a civil way. And to get to know the person you are spending those eight hours with. But, like I said, if you don’t want to talk, that’s fine with me. I don’t want you to start referring to me as the-dude-at-work-who-never-shuts-up.”
I can’t help but laugh. Thankfully he is smiling, too, and the pair of us share a self-deprecating chuckle—I think we both know that I already consider him the-dude-at-work-who-never-shuts-up. I want to tell him it’s too late for that, but I’m afraid that would be taking it too far.
So instead I say, “Yeah, well, I don’t want you to start referring to me as the-bitch-at-work, so let’s meet somewhere in the middle.” I don’t even know what that means. Except, perhaps, that I am no longer going to consider choking him just to get him to shut the fuck up.
“Agreed,” he says. And then he is silent, and we return to the plans spread out across the conference table. Over the course of the rest of the afternoon, with the exception of a brief conversation about what to get for lunch, Matt and I talk only about the project. No posturing. No chattering. Nothing. It is workplace bliss. I wonder how long it will last.
For the first time since I started working here, I’m not watching the clock. I’m not waiting for six to arrive so I can walk out of the building, sink my earbuds into my head, and shuffle out of Matt’s world and into my own. Instead, when six comes, I am still sitting in my cubicle with Matt next to me, typing specs into the keyboard and talking about how we can synchronize five different conference rooms on five different floors. He acknowledges the time first by silently tapping on the clock at the top of my computer screen with his index finger. I turn to look at him, and he’s already up and out of his seat. I quickly hit “save,” tell Matt I will see him tomorrow, and write a sticky note to myself to remind me where we need to pick up the project in the morning. I gather up my stuff and walk out to the elevator.
Matt is standing there, too. While we wait for the elevator to arrive I decide to meet him in the middle.
“So, yeah, I guess you are kind of right. David is sort of intense,” I say, looking up at the digital numbers above the elevator doors.
“What?” I look over at him briefly, and I see confusion.
“My kind-of boyfriend. His name is David.”
“Oh,” he says. Then after a few seconds, he adds, “I didn’t mean to sound judgmental when I mentioned it before. I just thought he seemed pretty intense. About you, I mean.”