Monkey Business

layla’s stakeout

Wednesday, January 28, 4:00 p.m.

I am stalking Bradley Green.

All I need is a long-lens camera, a trench coat, cigarette hanging from my lip and dark sunglasses. I bet most stalkers don’t wear Chanel suits.

The best part is that I didn’t even break in. Since my interview was at one, I just stayed in the building’s coffee shop. The woman behind the counter makes a mean vanilla chai. I’ve set up camp with my New York Times directly against a glass wall that faces the elevators. And it’s not just the potential of catching a glimpse of my potential Prince Charming that’s exciting me; it’s the energy. I love working. I seriously love the pulse of getting things done.

Why hasn’t Bradley come in for a cup of coffee? Then I can casually bump into him and we’ll finally meet. Everyone needs a four-o’clock break. Maybe he’s not in his office today. I could be waiting here all day for nothing. I should call him. Why not? I’ll call and hang up. I take out my cell phone. No. Sitting here, minding my own business (meeting the man of my future is my business) is one thing, but stalking him on the phone is totally unethical.

What the hell. I’ll star 67 and block the call. And Kimmy thinks she has nothing to teach me. I dial the company number, which I looked up just before I left for New York, and ask his receptionist to connect me to him.

Connect me to him. That has a nice sound to it.

It rings. I am going to hang up, aren’t I? I will. I will not speak to him. I can’t speak to him. I’ll sound like an idiot.

“Hello, you’ve reached Bradley Green, it’s January twenty-eighth, and I’m either on the phone or away from my desk…”

Fantastic. He’s in the office today. I hang up the phone.

At six-thirty, I see him.

It’s him. I know I’ve only seen one picture of him, although I did enlarge it on my screen, but I feel that it’s him deep in my soul. It’s him. My prince. I’m going to meet him!

He’s about six feet tall, and wearing black pants and a silvery-gray shirt. His hair is light brown, and he’s talking to a woman in a short yellow suit. He’s holding his folded jacket over his arm. Is he leaving? So early? Is he a slacker or is business slow? And who is that woman? And why is she wearing yellow? Vile. That is so not her color.

I hate being catty. It is not nice to be catty. It’s time to meet my prince!

I’m paralyzed in my chair.

I can’t. I just can’t. I don’t have an excuse.

The door flaps behind him as he leaves for the night.

I pretend to read the paper.