By Leslie Lindsay
Here’s some new stuff from my novel-in-progress. This character was orginally hard to write, but he’s really starting to come to life. Onward, Steve!
[Remember this is fiction. It is not meant to represnt anyone real, living or dead. Please do not beg, borrow, or steal…if you like, great–if not, that’s okay, too]
Twenty zoomed by in a blur. Mentally, my mind worked out the numbers. Four years in college. Two of them with Annie. Plus another 3 or so months of dating her in high school. A year of an internship. Four years dating Beth. Three years at my first job…married for 5…events overlapped like a Venn Diagram. It was becoming a bad word problem. Overarching the whole problem, at its core was Annie. The mathematical study of change. Calculus. I remember our prof from college, a rail-thin guy with an ironic affinity for words: “calculus is derived from Latin, meaning ‘to cut with stone.’ I didn’t quite get it then, and I still don’t now. No amount of formal education had prepared me for the number pattern that was Annie Kelley.
I didn’t think that moment my senior year in high school would’ve made much of an impact on me, but it did. It was the beginning of me and Annie. She drifted into that health & wellness class so many years ago with a friend and a smile. Scarlett was her name. (I remembered that because who names their kid Scarlett unless they are obsessed with Gone with the Wind?) Annie’s long wavy hair fell over her shoulders to her perky breasts. Her pear-shaped ass danced in front of my adolescent eyes. I got a boner just sitting there. She slid her backpack off her shoulders and tucked it under her desk and sat with her legs crossed, her pen poised as though she was about to jot down something important. There wasn’t anything important in that class, believe me.
Except for Annie. She was my first glimpse into the world of love. And the beginning of my obsession of all things Annie.
I raked my hands through my hair; my brow still a bit damp from the anxiety of my morning drive-by. I had a job to do and needed to look the part. I reached over to the passenger seat, snatched a cap. Da Bears. I crammed it onto my head. I couldn’t wear it into work, but it might flatten things down.
I pulled into the gate at Carmargo, waved my hand and offered a straight-line smile to the fat woman in the glass vestibule. “Yep, here for the duration,” I wanted to tell her, no running off to Hallmark today.” I parked my car on the lower level of the underground garage, hefted my backpack onto my shoulders and tossed the cap aside. I took the elevator up two flights to the main level entrance.
I passed by the receptionist in the bright white lobby—skylights and green plants make for an atrium feel—and offered a nod. She looked up, licking her lips and called out, “Good morning, Mr. Kesselhoff.” I straightened my posture, relishing in the fact that she knew my name before ducking into the stairway down a level where I really do my work: the lab. Hopefully, no one would notice that I was a little late.
Driving by Annie’s house was stupid. If you ain’t gonna shit, get off the pot. The thought gripped me as I leaned over the morning buffet table, snatching a donut and refilling my travel mug with something tastier than Beth’s cup-of-Joe. The Wednesday morning leadership meetings always brought catered breakfast.
This was just another perk. Besides the hot receptionist, of course.
I chuckled at the stupid joke we engineers shared with our college sweeties. It went like this: Sex is like math: Add the bed, subtract the clothes, divide the legs, and pray to God you don’t multiply!
Today I was going to get off the pot.
(image source: http://www.potty-training-secrets-exposed.com/Offer.html)
[This is an orgianl work of Fiction is not meant to represnt anyone real, living or dead. Please do not beg, borrow, or steal…if you like, great–if not, that’s okay, too. Images links are for entertainment and are not necessarily endorsed by the author. As with all things on the Internet, please assess accordingly.]