Carissa doesn’t know she’s the talk of the office. Or maybe she knows it and doesn’t give a damn. I hope that’s it. That’d be just like her. It’s how she is. She is comfortable in her own skin in a way most people never are, even at age ninety.
I don’t mean that she’s a snob or anything. She is just Carissa. She’s not worried about whether you like her or find her attractive. She goes about her business and lives her life. I think that’s exactly why people either love her or hate her.
All the women in the office hate her. Mostly, I think they’re jealous. Carissa is gorgeous! Even the gay guy in accounting checks her out, though I think he’s more looking for pointers than anything. She is always impeccably dressed. Her clothes are perfect; complimentary fabrics, matching colors, perfect accessories. Never a crooked hem or run in her stocking.
My girlfriend could learn a thing or two from her. So could the other girls in the office. Well, not the lawyers. They have to wear their professional gray suits and starched blouses and shit. But the paralegals, I don’t know how they don’t pick up a thing or two. She makes more money than they do, sure, but it’s not like they can’t afford one or two nice things. Though, that car of hers, I don’t know how she could afford it Paralegals don’t make that kind of money.
I wonder if Carissa makes a little more than the other girls. I wouldn’t be surprised. The lawyers do sneaky stuff like that all the time. And she is good. She knows the business. I’ve never heard a complaint about her work, ever. And that’s saying something ’cause everyone here has some demerit on file. Everyone but Carissa, I guess. She’s always on the ball.
And the men in the office? They are just horny. Every one of them. They want a piece of that. Even old Mr. Sanderson, the oldest partner in the firm. He’s got to be in his eighties. He should be over that business and focusing on breathing. But I swear one day I saw him with a boner when he was looking at her. She wasn’t even doing anything like bending over a drawer or anything. She was standing there talking to Maggie Anne. And there he was in the doorway with a woody. He should have been embarrassed, a man of his age.
And that Walter. The idiot. Daddy must have bought his law degree. There is no way he earned it on his own. He’s a fool from top to bottom. Jacking off in the men’s room! Can you believe that shit? In the executive men’s room. Moaning and sighing and grunting in one of the stalls. He didn’t even go to the end stall! And he didn’t hear the damn bathroom door creak open. He just kept on at it. I turned around and went back out. I couldn’t take care of my business with him in there.
Now who else could have caused that? Don’t get me worng. I’ve had my daydreams about Carissa, too. Mostly after the morning I found her in the executive showers. It was six in the morning, and I’d gone for an early jog and came early to the office to shower. I heard the water running as I passed to my office and figured it was one of the partners. I got my clothes from my closet and headed in there, expecting Sanderson Junior, or McDaniels, or somebody.
I was already in need of a cold shower that morning. Then I walk in and who’s in one of the showers but Carissa. For once, I didn’t complain about the glass doors that are only barely frosted. My cock shot up like a soldier called to attention.
“Oh, excuse me,” I stammered.
Carissa calmly reached for her towel and wrapped it around her body. Then she said, “Good morning. I didn’t expect anyone here so early.”
No apology for using the executive’s showers. No embarrassment at her nakedness. Just her usual professional, capable demeanor. I did my best to do the same. It made for a long day. Like when she wears that green shirt with the dark stripes that curve around her breasts. But I control myself. I can recall the image when I’m at home. No need for a civilized man to go rushing of to the bathroom in the middle of the workday to rub on himself and call out, “Carissa!” where other people can hear.