Sighing, I haul myself into the bus and my everyday, boring-ass routine. I shuffle down the aisle, glancing around at my options. Old dude snoring and drooling on the window or kid simultaneously kicking everything within reach of his puny legs and button mashing a defeated-looking Nintendo. Five and a half seconds pass, and I choose old dude. Plopping down, I hunch myself and keep as far away from his agape maw as possible, ruffling my hair along my neck. Seven minutes, forty three seconds later-- pretty good for a Wednesday-- I’m at my building. I mumble some garbled speech that symbolizes a thank you to bus drivers everywhere, and get off. Elevator ride, key card swipe, hand raised to other’s words of greeting, six cubicles down, first on the right, and in four minutes, two seconds I’ve reached my desk.
I look around to rapidly filling desks surrounding me. The one on my direct right that has remained empty since Jeremy left three months, six days ago. But it’s no longer abandoned. There’s a new name placard there, and before I get a chance to read the inscription, a cool, yet enticing female voice interrupts my thoughts.
“Hi, that’s my desk now. I’m Viveca. Call me V.”
I freeze for 3.4 seconds.
A drop-dead gorgeous bombshell has landed in the very desk next to me. Already, the men nearby have craned their necks to get a glimpse of her beauty. Hell, I’m sure every weird part of her human anatomy is beautiful. Like... her pinky toe cuticles. I’m sure they’re just as stunning as the rest of her.
Her long, dark chestnut hair sweeps over her pale collarbones, twisting up to her full lips, swept with the most vibrant color of red lipstick I have ever seen. Her sparkling green eyes-- her overall appearance resembling emeralds in coffee-colored catseye-- meet my awestruck gaze, and I unfreeze, verbally at least.
“Hey,” I stutter. I clear my throat and start again, 2.6 seconds later.
“I’m Chris.”
And then I am mute.

The next morning, I get to the office at about the same time Viveca does, 7:42. She grins at me, and we take the elevator up together. A few floors away from our own, the car stops, and the doors open to admit someone else.
A tall, lanky man, balancing two coffees and a stack of manila folders, steps in. He sees V, freezes, halfway into the elevator, and drops both the coffees and the manila folders. The hot liquid splatters everywhere, hitting both V’s and my legs. She shrieks and backs into the corner. He stays frozen, one foot in, the other out, for five seconds, and the elevator doors start to close. He only moves fully into the elevator when the doors hit his outstretched leg and retract again with a ding. After six seconds of incoherent stuttering, his words begin to form.
“I-I-I-I’m sss-s-so ss-s-so-orry…”
“It’s alright,” V says, grimacing a little. The brown drips running down her toned legs and onto her black pumps suggest otherwise.
“C-can I-I-I ask you s-something? Will you g-go out with mm-me?”
“Oh my god,” V looks truly baffled.
The elevator’s incessant ding interrupts the three seconds of silence.
“C’mon, V,” I say, as the doors open. “It’s our stop.”
She shakes her head at lanky legs and walks out after me.

The rest of the week goes by in a similar fashion. Me not speaking, V looking beautiful in the simplest of office casual. She doesn’t need to slather herself in riches and expensive silks to be beautiful. She just is.
Every d*****bag on the premises has struck out trying to get her attention. She doesn’t see them. Whether it’s five seconds or the entirety of a coffee break, those guys know it’s hopeless. So I’ve kept quiet for the past two days, four and a half hours, and twenty three minutes, waiting until I can decide what to do.

Apparently, everyone hasn’t been rejected. A new victim walks straight up to where V and I are sitting at our desks, clears his throat noisily and pulls half a dozen roses out from behind his back. Red roses.
“Viveca, beautiful Viveca…”
But apparently he can’t continue. His face goes red and his left eye twitches twice, but for six seconds, he makes no noise. The air hangs dead between us. Finally, he turns around and walks away. V gives me a look and I stifle my laugh.
With absolutely no warning, he spins around four seconds later, and with an almost manic look in his eye, shoves the thorny bouquet at V and starts again.
“Viveca, beautiful Viveca--”
This time, he’s cut off not by his own inhibition, but by V herself.
“No.” she says, with some force behind the words. She hands the flowers back to him and turns back to her computer.
He turns red again. As red as the roses in his now-trembling hand, which only makes the eye-twitch worse. I offer him a weak smile. He stands there for another three seconds before he finally walks away, shoulders hunched, breathing heavily.
V turns back to me.
“Well that was pathetic.”
I nod, still speechless. She laughs, and two seconds later, I do too, until we both can’t contain ourselves from the hilarity of the situation.

Every time she passes me, she sends me her 1000 megawatt brilliant smile, practically glowing as she prances through the office, and every time, I return my own weak hand wave and cheeky grin, completely caught up in her spell. As is every other guy in the building. And they get the same smile. Do I even have a chance? There’s absolutely no chance; someone that gorgeous couldn’t possibly be like me.
In a completely stalker-ish manner, I hide behind the water cooler to watch her pause as Todd, whom I’ve dubbed as the muscly mailman, showers attention on her, eyes glued to her chest. Despite his lowly status, he’s easily the best looking guy in the office. His blonde curls and overall Greek-god-ness might just be what V has been looking for. Oh God, I hope not. Bad thoughts, bad thoughts. He paws at her and I see her cool flicker for a second, but quickly return to a bubbly normal. She laughs at something he says, tossing back her mane of dark curls, and walks away to her station, fourteen seconds later. The poor guy looks dumbstruck. Arrogant bastard. Any fool can figure out what just happened, and I’m thanking the stars for it.

Returning from a coffee run, I sidle back to my dull-looking desk, so bland next to Viveca, and lower myself into my chair, setting a latte on her desk. There’s still a chance, I remind myself. V turns her head and gives me a little coy smile. I return my own, and hope it doesn’t look like a grimace, or like I’m constipated. Only a second later I look away, too afraid of what my traitorous facial muscles may be giving away.
She gives me another smile, and with some random burst of adrenaline filled confidence, and then I splutter some words I will never be able to take back.
“Youwannagooutwithmetonight?”
She gives me a questioning stare, with a perfectly shaped eyebrow quirked upward.
Some of the guys passing through the rows stop and stare along with her.
Oh God, I’m just gonna join the ranks of all the idiots who have attempted to hit on her, but I’ve started this, and now I have to finish it, so two seconds later I try one more time.
“Do you want to go out with me tonight?”
She actually smiles. For three whole seconds. Smiles with her lovely straight, white teeth, those gorgeous lips parting. Every guy in the general vicinity has picked up on this and tunes in, frozen still. Her nod is almost imperceptible, but her words are clear.
“Of course.”
A multitude of sighs, exhales and groans of disappointment fill the air.
I’m. Over. The moon.
Holy s***. I was right.
It’s been way too long since I was right.

Right after work, I rush home-- well as fast as my 24 minute 36 second bus ride allows me to hurry. Yay traffic. Full of newfound exuberance, I run up all seven flights of stairs, panting at the top about a minute-six later. Seven o’clock. Seven o’clock. Glancing at the clock’s face on the wall, I have 47 minutes to get ready. Still jogging steadily, I almost dance into my bedroom, flipping on my radio to an extra loud setting, and finally sliding to a stop on the carpet right before my closet.
“Pants pants, pants, SHOES, uh, uh, do these match? Wait, did I shave this morning? F! I CUT MYSELF. Ummm… WHERE’D MY LEFT SHOE GO? Oh. There. Whoops. Na, na, American girl, da da duh, dah da da da dah… Clock, clock, eight minu-- EIGHT MINUTES?! S***, s***, s***, go self go! Umm… Ah! Wallet! Um um um… mints? Hmm, maybe, if I’m lucky… Teeth brushed? Check. And--”
There’s a knock on my door.
I freeze.
Composing myself for a slow two seconds and pushing my bangs out of my eyes, I put a little sway in my walk and open the door, rowdy music still pulsing in the background.
There she stands, lovely as ever, in a turquoise little number and black peep-toe heels, clutching a red purse the size of her forearm. She tucks her hair behind her ears and smiles at me. At me. Not some lanky guy in a tux. Not a 6’6’’ jock with a knowing smile. No. She smiles at the 5’7’’, socially awkward, knock-kneed, mousy-haired, not-so-straight girl who stands there grinning too widely as if she’s a four year-old at Christmas. It’s me she picked, after all.