Page 14 of Tell Me What You Want

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The next day at work, I enter my supervisor’s office to look for some files, and sigh at the memory of what occurred there the day before. I’ve hardly slept. My mind has not stopped thinking about Mr.Zimmerman and what happened between us.

Miguel comes in, and together we go have breakfast with Paco and Raúl. The whole time I’m watching the door, waiting for Eric to appear, but he never shows. I’m disappointed.

Back in the office, I’m just turning on my computer when my phone rings. It’s the receptionist. She says there’s a young man with a flower delivery, asking for me. Flowers? No one’s ever sent me flowers, and I know very well who’s behind these: Zimmerman.

My heart beating a mile a minute, I meet the elevator as the doors open and a young man with a red cap and a beautiful bouquet steps out. As soon as he sees me, he rushes over.

“Are you Ms.Flores?” he says.

The bouquet is spectacular. Gorgeous yellow roses.

The young man looks at me and I nod, finally. He hands me the bouquet.

“Sign here,” he says, “and please give the bouquet to Mónica Sánchez.”

My jaw drops.

They’re for my supervisor?

My happiness vanishes. Those brief seconds of joy when I thought I was someone special are erased in a blink. Not wanting to give away my disillusionment, I take the bouquet, but I’m on the verge of tears. It would have been so lovely if they had been for me ...

I put the bouquet on my desk and sign the slip the young man has handed me. Once he leaves, I take the beautiful flowers to my supervisor’s office. I leave them on her desk and turn to leave. But that’s when curiosity gets the better of me, so I turn back and look for the card amidst the flowers. I open it and read:Mónica, next time, seconds? Eric Zimmerman.

It makes me furious. What does he mean, “seconds”?

I quickly put the note back in its place and exit the office. My mood is black. I hope no one so much as coughs in my direction in the next few hours, because they’re going to pay dearly for it.

I can’t get that “seconds?” out of my head. Then my supervisor comes in as I’m typing up a report on my computer.

“Good morning, Judith. Come into my office, please,” she says without even glancing at me.

No! Not now.

She sees the flowers as I step in and close the door. She picks them up. She reads the card, and I see her smile. My neck itches.

“I’ve been talking to Roberto in personnel,” she tells me. “The company is making some changes. I had a very interesting meeting yesterday with Mr.Zimmerman, and they’re going to make a few adjustments at some of the Spanish branches.”

Hearing that she had an interesting meeting really irritates me. But then the phone rings, and I quickly pick it up. “Good morning. Mónica Sánchez’s office. This is her assistant, Ms.Flores. How may I help you?”

“Good morning, Ms.Flores.” It’s Zimmerman! “Could I speak with your supervisor?”

“Just one moment, please,” I utter, my heart racing.

It’s no surprise that as soon as I tell my supervisor who it is, she claps and signals for me to leave the office. As I’m closing the door behind me, I hear her. “Hi. Did you get back to your hotel all right last night?”

Last night?Last night?What does she mean, “last night”?

But he was with me last night! Then, quickly, my prodigious imagination puts together what happened. She must have been the person he was speaking with on the phone in the car. He left me at home, then went to meet her. Did they go back to Moroccio?

I’m angrier with each passing second. But why? There’s nothing between Mr.Zimmerman and me. We merely went out for dinner. He touched me over my clothes, and together we witnessed a sexual spectacle. Does that give me the right to be angry?

I return to my desk and my computer. I have to work. I don’t want to think. At one o’clock, my boss emerges from her office and winks at Miguel. He gets up, and they leave together. I know what they’re going to do.

I’m so angry that I work with vigor and clear off a bunch of paperwork. At about two thirty, Óscar, one of the company’s security guards, comes over to me.

“Mr.Zimmerman’s driver left this for you,” he says, handing me a large envelope.

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