by David S. Grant
forum: TEASE, Inc.
speculative fiction for the internet generation.

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           Brandi sits across from me, looking on with late night movie eyes.  Each time I look at them I’m locked in, and have to force my eyes back onto her resume.

          Doesn’t she remember me?

          Two nights a week for a year?  This is absurd, of course she remembers.  Who wouldn’t remember giving lap dances to someone less than six months ago? 

          What is the world coming to?  Of course she remembers.

          The resume in front of me says Gina, but I know better.

          She speaks of previous employment in marketing and sales, buy no mention of stripping (or anything creative for that matter).  Although I have to agree, given the setting it’s probably for the best.

          We both stare blankly at the resume that’s resting next to my Scotch tape dispenser and a large unorganized stack of post it notes and urgent phone messages; none of this matters at the moment.

          The office fills with drab elevator music.  Somehow Motley Crue seems more appropriate given the scene.

          Brandi crosses her legs, I catch a glimpse of her left thigh as it slides over the right.  A playful act to let me know she knows that I know.  I definitely know.

          My phone rings, Sandra from Human Resources.  “One second” I say to Brandi, making the motion with my index finger.  Brandi shifts in her chair, her tightly buttoned blouse ready to explode at any minute. 

          Sandra says something about Jordan being more qualified, but that I can hire whomever I want for the position.  I’m fixated on Brandi’s lips.  She releases her tongue ever so lightly and wets her upper lip, pushing the bottom lip to a fit of jealously I’m sure.  

          I’m still holding the phone, but no one is on the other line so I slowly put it back down into the cradle.  Outside my door is Tim standing among the massive cubicles, printers, fax machines, and a large clock that reads two hours until five o’clock.  Outside my door there stands Tim, gawking at Brandi, finally walking in and introducing himself.  I say nothing.

          A brief pause as Brandi and I stare at Tim.

          “Hi, I’m Gina.”  Says Brandi finally.  

          Tim and Brandi talk for a second while I look over at my computer where an email has just popped up from Sandra.

Just a quick note to remind you we need to make a decision today, preferably   before five o’clock. LOL.  My sister is coming to town.  LOL.  We’re all going out for  drinks after work.  LOL.
          Kill me.  

          I turn back to Brandi and wonder why?

          I come to the conclusion that this is her way out.  The window is closes faster for a dancer than any other profession.  This office.  This job.  Her escape to normalcy.  First she changes her name (Gina is a good choice), then interviews for non-descript jobs in Corporate America (check), settles in and becomes one of the associates, it’s not difficult, she will learn by watching others.  Eventually she meets someone in the office and gets married, has two children, and buys a ranch style house with a pool.  Not anything special, just an above ground pool where she can relax, sipping on a Cosmopolitan, forgetting the past and her dirty little secret.  The definition of normalcy for girls named Brandi.

          Reluctantly Tim leaves after I motion for him to exit.

          “So.”  I try to smile, but the right half of my face has gone numb. “Do you have any questions?”  

          After re-crossing her legs she asks, “That depends, do I have the job?”


          I chuckle.  “Everything here looks good.”  I pick up her resume.  “Just one more question.”

          “Shoot.”  Says Brandi.

          I clear my throat, followed by a smile.  “When did you stop dancing at The Rear End?” 

          “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  Says Brandi quickly.

          I look closer.  Staring at Brandi’s, or wait, maybe…

          My hands begin sweating profusely so I set down the resume and wipe my hands on my pants.

          Could I be wrong?  I look at her again.  A minute ago I was sure, but now?  Not so sure.  Maybe I just wanted it to be Brandi so bad.  Come to think of it I don’t even remember looking at Brandi’s eyes, even when she finished with the dance, pecked me on the cheek and whispered a gracious “Thank you” in my ear I don’t recall her eyes.

          Oh shit, I need to recover.  

          Sandra is calling.  I leave the phone ring.

          Please turn off the Motley Crue music.

          “So, if there’s no other questions…”  I tail off and place my hands back on the desk.

          “Just one.”  Gina asks.

          “Sure.  What is it?”  My voice cracks.  The phone stops ringing.

          “Do I have the job?”  She asks, followed by another re-cross of her legs.  This time a slight pause before the legs come together.  Maybe a seductive move on her part, maybe not.  

          Past the point of no return.  Trapped in a corner.  LOL.

          I look Gina in the eyes, then look away, and then finally down at her resume.  “You have the job I say.”  In a downtrodden tone.  I try to smile, but there’s nothing left; my entire face has gone numb.

          Gina’s face shows a sigh of relief and then slowly she lifts herself from her chair.  I begin to do the same, but she motions for me to stay sitting.  

          Next, Gina slowly leans over the desk until her lips are an inch away from mine.  Perched over my desk she leans in further, brushing against my lips over to my cheek that she kisses softly.

          “I remember.”  A breath hits my ear. “Thank you.”  Whispers Brandi and then leaves the office.

          Cue the Motley Crue music.




copyright 2005 David S. Grant.

David S. Grant, the author of the upcoming novel Corporate Porn (Winter 2005, Silverthought Press), was born in West Allis, WI. David's first novel, Bleach, was published in April 2004. David has also published several short fiction pieces with various literary journals and websites including The Writing Journal, Silverthought, The Reader's Retreat, The Falling Star Magazine, The Sink, and Lifted Magazine. He now lives and works in New York City. David can be reached at davidsgrant27@hotmail.com.