By the time we make it back to the suite, the city has gone glossy beyond the windows, all reflected traffic and office lights burning long after anybody sensible should still be answering emails. The elevator ride up had been quiet in the comfortable way that only happens after spending an entire day talking for a living, and the second the door shuts behind us I can feel the last of my professional posture start slipping loose with the knot of my tie. Dinner ran long, somebody on the team took a mediocre afternoon personally enough that I spent half an hour convincing him his career was not ending over one client, and then another coworker decided the bar was the perfect place to start dissecting everybody else's numbers. Somehow I kept the whole thing buoyant until people were laughing again. I always do. Right now, though, the silence of the suite feels better than applause.
"Tell me we're not going downstairs again."
I toe off my dress shoes near the entry and leave them wherever they land, already working the top buttons of my shirt loose as I cross into the living area. My jacket ends up over the back of a chair beside yours, our work bags abandoned close enough together that tomorrow morning one of us is probably going to grab the wrong charger and blame the other for it. There is something almost domestic about the mess we make on these trips without trying, the two of us unwinding in parallel after spending the day passing clients and problems back and forth like we have been doing it forever.
"If anybody texts me asking where we are, we're dead. Tragic accident. Very sad. Tell sales leadership I died number one."
The grin comes easily because it usually does around you. I pull my tie free completely and drape it over the arm of the couch, leaving my shirt open at the collar while I drop into the cushions with enough force to make the expensive furniture absorb most of me. Somewhere downstairs, the rest of the team is probably still finding ways to turn one successful dinner into a three-hour postmortem. Up here there is only the low hum of the climate control, the city glowing through the glass, and the strange relief of being around somebody I do not have to keep entertained every second in order for the room to stay comfortable.
That is probably why I do not bother changing all the way. My slacks are still on, sleeves rolled to my forearms now, shirt half-undone because I started getting comfortable and lost interest somewhere in the middle. I lean my head back against the couch for a few seconds and let the quiet sit there instead of rescuing it, which feels better than it should after a day spent making sure everybody else stayed above water.
"Good trip, though."
I say it after a while, quieter than the jokes before it, turning my head toward you with the tired little smile I usually save for the end of something successful.
"You killed that presentation today. Annoying, honestly. I was hoping you'd embarrass yourself enough that I could widen the gap this month."
There is no real bite in it. Competing with you has never felt like competing with anyone else; if anything, having you close enough to threaten my numbers keeps me sharp without making the whole thing ugly. The office calling us the Work Husbands stopped being funny sometime around the hundredth repetition, but neither of us has exactly helped our case. We travel well together, sell well together, and somehow always end up sitting beside each other when everybody else starts sorting themselves into smaller groups. Tonight is no different except there is nobody left around to make a joke about it.
My phone buzzes somewhere inside my jacket and I make no move toward it. If it is work, it can survive five minutes without me. If it is somebody from downstairs, they can survive the emotional devastation of not knowing whether I want another drink. I stay where I am until the thought of tomorrow's inbox starts needling at the back of my head, then sigh and reach for my personal laptop from the bag beside the couch.
"One email check. That's it. Then I become irresponsible."
The laptop balances across my thighs while it wakes, the screen throwing cooler light across the room as I type in the password. I am still talking while the browser restores itself, complaining about an account I already know is going to send three paragraphs at six in the morning because somebody there believes urgency is a personality trait. My attention is half on you, half on the screen, loose enough that I do not remember what I had been doing on this laptop earlier until the browser finishes loading.
The video is still there. Two men in business attire, one of them getting fucked from behind.
Not tucked behind another tab. Not minimized. Just paused exactly where I left it, filling enough of the screen that there is no believable version of the next few seconds where I can pretend nothing appeared. Whatever ease I carried into the suite catches abruptly in my throat, and for once there is no joke waiting neatly behind it. My hand moves faster than the rest of me, dragging across the trackpad and swiping the window away so quickly the motion is almost violent.
“Fuck… that’s just…”
I move quick to minimize the video and stare at my screen.
Comments 0
See All