9:17 am Tuesday
David absently checks his morning emails, listening for his dream girl. She passes his desk each morning. He never looks at her; he sees her later in the day, but it's this morning ritual makes his heart stop. Despite the large staff at Harpo, they really are a family; in that they know intimate, embarrassing details about each other, but talk instead about the weather. Not that he's ever really talked to her. Occasionally bumping elbows while making coffee doesn't count. They haven't ever really talked. Not together, at least. He has imaginary conversations with her all the time: in the shower, on the drive to work, at lunch. But it always ends the same way: horrendously. He puts his foot in his mouth every time.
Their pasts are just a huge elephant in the room. There is no room for the present, which makes a future with her impossible. He's certain Claudia doesn't even know his name, although they eat lunch together every day. He wolfs down his ham sandwich in the amount of time it takes her to heat up her Marie Callender's, managing to mutter a "have a good day" just as the microwave dings. He's considered eating at a different time, but he can't give up those two and a half glorious minutes of being alone with her. Each day, he swears anew that this will be the day to break the ice, memorizing jokes or factoids that he thinks she'd like, but then he realizes he has no idea what she'd find funny.
She's such a gentle creature. Delicate, really. She must be self-conscious about her story; everyone is, and hers is more tragic than most. She's a bit of a celebrity, really; admired for her tenacity and gentle demeanor, considering the horrors of her early childhood. She's so quiet and seems so reserved, in her signature headband and matching skirt suit. The lavender is his favorite. He loves that she wears skirts. She could hide her leg with slacks, but she doesn't. He marvels at how well she matches her shoes too, considering she has to buy them two at a time. His heart breaks for all the unworn left heels and right flats. He wonders if her hips hurt. He'd love to massage them. He wonders if she has nightmares from the foster homes, or if she hates the heat. Just thinking about that day, imagining her lying helpless in that car, close to death, snot and tears sticking to her face, her chin bleeding, her poor leg twisted and tangled mercilessly. It sickens him, really. He thinks of his own mother, and imagines living without her, imagines knowing she was in prison.
Last season, when Dr. Phil had on the mother who left her baby in the car for a job interview, Claudia did all the prep notes herself. He marvels at that. He marvels at her. So much of his love for her is wrapped up, though, in her story. He worries that she'd be offended by the way he longs to protect her, that she'd see his concern as pity; his admiration would always be clouded by the taint of how different she is. She is, truly, different. But how could he ever convince her that it is that difference that draws him to her without her thinking he was a freak, or that he thought she was.
9:18. He catches a whiff of her perfume, three glorious steps after he heard her down the hall. click, click, clomp. His heart catches. Click, click, clomp. He sucks in a breath. Click, click, clomp. He lets out a long breath, brought almost to tears by her perfect, uneven gait.
If only he could tell her how beautiful she is. If only she could know how many nights her face was the only image that allowed him to fall asleep; that when the smell of burning flesh in his childhood home woke him up in a heavy sweat, it was that adorable little question mark of a scar, hugging her cute little cleft chin, that allowed his chest to rise and fall, slower, slower, into sweet slumber.
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