Jake & Conor - 2. Chapter 2

At work, I was slowly circling a guy a few years older than I was, a writer, far better established. He claimed I could organize anything and praised me relentlessly, except where it mattered. Finally, he agreed to go out.
“Dinner first?” I asked. We’d been invited to a screening.
“I snacked late this afternoon,” he said.
“Coffee, after?”
He wouldn’t commit.
The screening was private, maybe two-hundred people in a theater built for several-hundred more. We were spread too thin for comedy but still laughed – the movie was a 60s TV remake two of our bosses had co-produced.
“That wasn’t too bad,” I whispered to the guy – Conor – at its end.
“It sucked, and we know it.” He grinned. “But it’ll make money, so we can lie.”
We did, almost too easily.
“How do I work for these guys?” he asked afterward – in a Thai restaurant, though I’d mentioned I didn’t really like them. “Is my stuff as bad?”
“Your writing always makes me laugh.”
“Are you pickier about your food?”
Still, he soon eased up – possibly less from my compliment than in reflection.
“This is the best show I’ve ever worked on,” he conceded. “We’ll always have to worry about ratings – no question there. But my ideas actually make it on camera. You don’t know how rare that is.”
I didn’t. From my job, I’d very quickly learned about the business. And how what made me laugh, didn’t necessarily make other people. It polished my tact. But he was right – I had no experience outside our show.
“You play Scrabble?” he asked suddenly.
“Born clutching a dictionary.”
“I won’t let you use it.”
He took me home, demolished my traditionally strong game, then peeled off my clothes.
“You’re still dressed,” I said, slightly embarrassed for being the only one naked in his living room. Whenever I’d tried to unbutton something, he’d twisted away.
“I wanted to see how far I’d get,” he told me, laughing. “How desperate you were.”
“Maybe determined,” I countered.
“You’ve stalked me for a year.”
“I didn’t see you pressing charges.”
“You were a cute distraction,” he admitted.
It was hard to banter when I was standing naked, and he was sitting comfortably on the couch.
“Well, I’m gonna leave now,” I joked.
“That would be nicely rude.”
“Then tell everyone in the office”
“They’ll know anyway.”
“Never sleep with somebody from work?”
“Not with your boss.”
“You’re not.”
“But you’re thinking I’ll sleep with you?”
I tried to undress him but couldn’t. This time my fingers failed.
He laughed again. “It’s an Italian shirt. The buttons are fake – falso. You have to slip it over my head.”
I did, and we made love in the living room, easily taking longer than the Scrabble. We barely spoke, which was odd for two people who were so verbal. Maybe we both needed a break.
Afterwards, from far below, the floor rumbled.
He laughed. “I’ve always wanted to ask, ‘Did the earth the earth move for you?’”
“‘I died.’”
He laughed and couldn’t stop.
“I don’t believe you know that!” he finally got out. “No one ever does!”
It clinched things more than letting him strip me.
Of course, the next day everyone knew. We could’ve run ads.
“That’s why I waited,” he confessed.
“I thought you weren’t interested.”
“Are you crazy? Finding decent guys here is harder than getting scripts produced. In New York, I was hot. Here, that’s sixteen.”
“You are hot.”
“And you didn’t even choke.”
“You talk too much.”
“You don’t know me well enough to say that.”
“I do where I come from.”
“And we know where that is.”
We were in his office. I needed an icy pool.
“I can’t see you tonight,” he quickly added, almost another test.
“Writing?” I asked. It was a featherweight answer.
“It’s always gonna be like that.”
“It’s OK. I’m busy, too.”
For a moment, we were silent.
“We’ll be fine,” we both started at once. Then laughed
Maybe we’d suddenly jumped too far ahead. But if he’d really thought about me, as much as I had about him, this wasn’t exactly new. And we’d had some practice.