I can hear his laugh across the fucking building. I would say it sounds like an animal dying, but that’s not really true. It’s more like an animal having a seizure – or, better, six animals having seizures at the same time. It echoes in my ears and makes a racket in my brain and follows me around while I’m trying to get work done. How dare he be happy and express it in such an earsplitting way!
His head strongly resembles a Mr. Potato Head. He wears holey jeans like he’s 25 and fits in with the hot, hip college students. Those pants are more hole than jean, and his hairy white thighs bulge out of the holes whenever he sits down like Play-Doh oozing from a jar. I ask myself, on what planet is this attractive? Does he even look at himself in the mirror before he steps foot into the world?
The worst part is he goes for girls my age: the curious, sultry, young lasses fresh off the high school market. I can tell he would go for me if ever I was alone with him. Needless to say I do everything I can to avoid that.
I can’t concentrate on what he’s saying about my spreadsheet because his body stinks of weed and unwashed skin, and it’s invading my olfactory nerves. His eyes are on my back, I just know it – prowling over my skin and the folds of my shirt like a hawk eyes its prey. I don’t know if it’s worse like this or worse when he leans down next to me with his meaty hands planted on the desk and his grisly chest hair falling out of his low cut V-neck shirt, which is covered in dog hair and smells like a dumpster.
He’s been married five times and has had many girlfriends, which is beyond my scope of understanding. He seems to be a magnet for the desperate and the crazy. Maybe all those girlfriends contributed to his incomprehensibly inflated ego, because it’s clear he thinks a lot of himself. He talks with this air of arrogance, like he’s not a drugged-out 40-something stuck in a job that barely pays more than minimum wage. Anytime I get remotely stuck on an assignment I’m trying to complete, he interrupts in the most condescending manner to let me know what I’m doing wrong. Interestingly, he never does this to any of the men that work in the office. When I call him out on this, he only emits an obnoxious guffaw and tells me I’m cute.
That’s another thing – I hate it when he calls me adorable, sexy, or hot, which happens at least three times a week. I hate it when he tells me how much he loves the new receptionist’s ass. I hate it when he texts me five times in a row about random events going on in his day. One time he told me that he’d woken up that morning to his dog jumping directly onto his crotch. Another time he told me he’d once been dared to masturbate with a cheese grater. The stories go on and on – trust me, I’m not making this up. You really can’t make this kind of person up.
I try to feel sorry for him because in reality I think he’s just lonely and socially awkward. But he brings it on himself, so I can’t. Just two more months, I tell myself. Two more months until I leave the city and can get out of here – away from his scent, away from his intrusive gaze, and away from that God-forsaken cackle.