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Amberly stormed out of the room. Tim pulled his chair closer to the side of the bed and tried to haul himself into it. His sweaty hands slipped on the armrests and he slid down, hitting his chin against his knee and biting down on his tongue. That sharp, superficial pain finally angered him in the way that Amberly had not been able to.
“You’re a bitch!” he called after her, unable to follow. He wondered if his neighbors could hear him yelling. That was embarrassing, but also a little bit exciting. “And it’s a good thing my cock doesn’t work already, because being with you would have broken it!”
He got himself into his chair and rolled over to slam the door after her.
“Excuse me,” said the man on the phone. “This is William Masterson. I’m just calling to see when my plane is going to be positioned for my flight tomorrow.”
Tim started to sigh, then interrupted himself, accidentally turning the sound into a gurgle.
“Goodness,” said Mr. Masterson. “Are you quite alright?”
“Sorry,” said Tim. “Something got caught in my throat. What can I help you with today, sir?”
“My plane,” said Mr. Masterson. “Just my plane. I need to know when it’s going to be here.”
“Your plane isn’t coming,” said Tim, almost gently. “You know that. You know there’s no plane coming. So why do you keep calling?”
“But my fiancée. She’s waiting for me in Reno.”
“Buffy Vanderpoel,” said Tim. “Jesus. Mark and I googled her on break the other day. You know she’s an escort, right? Have you ever even met her, or have you just seen her fliers?”
Mr. Masterson was quiet.
“You know what?” asked Tim. “I can’t even send you a plane. I mean, I could try. I could put it under the account of someone else, one of our actual clients, and I might even be able to get it there. What city are you in? Really in, I mean?”
“Wilkes-Barre,” Mr. Masterson breathed.
“So that’s great,” said Tim. “AVP is real close by. If you could get there, I could try to send you an airplane. And you know what would happen when it got there? You wouldn’t be admitted onto it, and I would lose my job, and Buffy fucking Vanderpoel isn’t waiting for you in Reno. We’d just be screwed, buddy. So how bad do you want that jet?”
“I want it,” breathed Mr. Masterson. “Anything. I want it.”
Tim hung up the phone. He hated everyone in his office. He could see Jeanette’s shoes again, poking out into the hallway. They violated the no open-toe policy in the dress code. They weren’t even very attractive on her. The heel was too high, the straps wandering too far up her calves. They were stripper shoes. He could hear Mark in the next cubicle over, politely laughing for someone who paid tens of thousands of dollars for a few hours of flight.
Tim looked up the last phone number Mr. Masterson had used in his contact information and called it. He sat, rolling his chair back and forth as much as the size of his cubicle would allow, waiting for someone to pick up on the other end.
