Ginger drew men to her in mysterious and subtle ways.
The force with which she caught them was most closely comparable to to a mammoth electromagnet. They fell for her in such a way that left them confused and dumbfounded at the logic behind it all. The power with which she held them, jerked them from their positions of confidence and ease in life and flung them onto their faces, the grit of her charms kicking up into their eyes as they tumbled. Even in an office of shrewd businessmen, she could not be stopped.
Early in her career, certain men frequently dropped by to see her, to ask her if she wanted a coffee or to have lunch later in the day — though this was usually performed by instant message or email. Occasionally Ginger would accept an invitation. And so spring gave way to summer and summer to fall and it became that the seasons could practically be measured by Ginger’s suitors. They all looked about the same, all paid for her lattes, all tried to talk to her about sports: a topic she loathed. What she couldn’t understand was — if these men were so interested in her — why did they spend the few fleeting moments by obsessing over other guys? They quoted stats, recalled key plays, and practically bored Ginger to death.
They gave up after a while– once they realized each dollar they spent got them no closer to unbuttoning the tight pants Ginger habitually wore, gripping the sharp bones of her hips, protruding from beneath taught olive skin.
She sat in a bar one Friday after a particularly harrowing day at work. She was strung out, and it had been many weeks since she had last had the opportunity to lie in the sun with a novel
There was too much to do; too many stimuli. Her colleague, Sarah, ordered a lemon drop martini. Ginger had the lime. As they waited for the drinks, they stared off in different directions — not disrespectfully — but collectively exhausted. The prospect of not thinking about anything at all was like an oasis in the arid corporate desert. When their drinks arrived, they grimaced at one another and took healthy sips of the stark potions.
“This is it?” Ginger said.
For a phrase so vague, Sarah knew exactly the context in which it should be taken.
“Thirty more years of this and then you die.” Her smile was as bleak as her face and hair –both light and fair, cold and eerie. Blue eyes that reminded you more of a streak of tundra than a refreshing pool.
Ginger could already see in herself a new strain of thought. She worried more, slept less, bit her nails down farther than average. Summer had faded to fall and she had already begun to prepare her closet for the occasion. She felt harrowed and disjoint, had lost some of the hope that had driven her in the first few months. She shook her head, willing the thoughts away. It was still early in her career. It had just been a bad week.
A few martinis later, Ginger looked away from a giggling conversation with Sarah to see a man standing beside their table. He smiled as if extending an invitation and greeted Ginger. As he began speaking about buying her a drink, her face became coy, but it was unclear as to whether it was a result of rehearsal or reflex. She laughed on cue and made introductions for Sarah. She discussed her drink choice with a bit of humor. Though it lasted only a couple of minutes, these pleasantries, the man had cause to think he had done well for himself, except for her eyes. The man had not noticed it at first, but she had not once seen him. Actually seen him.
For her eyes remained unfocused, over his shoulders, as if straining to see something too far away.
