as usual*

Damn. Damn. Damn.

9:15 a.m. Work. Get call from Boss, who inquires after my mental state, saying he worries about me. I tell him fine, not worried about loss of Boy -- though still confused about what happened.

Boss says he had brainwave regarding strange loss of interest from Boy: small town politics. Boy is friends with folks who hate Boss. Someone planted bug in his ear. I got caught in middle. Boy listened to friends rather than consult me for truth.

I tell Boss this actually makes sense because of odd conversations I had with Boy at around time his behavior changed, relating to Boss's finances and taxes, about which I refused to speak. Secretary means secret-keeper, after all. Boy wouldn't stop harping. V. bizarre.

11:00 a.m. Feel significantly better. Boy didn't suddenly decide I was ugly. Boy is simply a weak person who relies overly much on the opinions of his friends. Boy is sheep. I am sheep dog. I want another sheep dog, not sheep. Best to have found it out this early, good riddance, want loyal partner, etc.

12:00 p.m. Home. Phone call to mother incenses her further over Boy's already Neanderthalic behavior. I don't tell her I found said behavior irritating but attractive in Bam-Bam sort of way. Instead am even more disgusted by what appears to have been Boy's attempt to dig up dirt on Boss using me. Invent half a dozen imaginary ways of telling Boy off.

12:58 p.m. Return to office from lunch. See Boy's work van heading toward street I am driving on to reach office. Boy looking at traffic not me. Jerk. No. Good. I don't have to wonder whether or not I should wave. Put arm down. Zoom quickly into parking lot across street from office to avoid being seen...or maybe to get out and be seen more quickly when Boy drives by. (After all, am one of prettiest girls in town. Might as well rub in what he's missing.)

12:59 p.m. Shit. Shit. Boy is parking in front of building Boss's wife is building next to office. Boy is doing inspection work at new building! Have to run into him. Shit.

1:00 p.m. Cross street looking relaxed and confident. All good so far. Boy is on cell phone (as always), still sitting in van. Will just wave and saunter past.

1:01 p.m. Boy gets out of truck before have reached curb. Hanging up phone. Must pass him now.

God he's attractive.

1:05 p.m. Arrrrgh. Meant to be cool and aloof when next saw him, but instead smiled and said hey. Boy made usual comments about how self is lucky to wear casual clothes to work, lucky to have lunch break, he's been checking electrical work all day, etc. Smiled and told him guess that's how it goes. Ooo-ed over Boy's dirty hands like some blonde barfly giggling over war wounds. (Lovely huge work-hardened manly kill-something hands. Miss holding those hands. Want to touch those hands. No! No! Boy is treacherous, dirt-digging sheep. Go back to work.) Managed to get away before dignity completely cracked and fell off. Walked shaking into office and tried concentrating on something else. Like maybe if I look busy and important and responsible he'll notice if he comes in to see me.

1:08 p.m. Saw his van drive past office window. Stupid. Of course he wouldn't say hi, he doesn't like me anymore. Why? Why? Slam dictation tape into slot to begin transcription. Am important with crucial job. Have many highly critical things to do. Love work. Don't need Boy.

1:10 p.m. Can't stop thinking about it. Why would he let small town politics take precedence over me? I'm gorgeous and funny. Oh God. Know he's all over, it's toast, did right thing by deciding not to pine, but still want him. Ugh. Ugh. Hate dating. Hate self. Now have nothing to think about but how nicely Boy kissed -- no! That way lies insanity. Dictation! Think about dictation.

1:11 p.m. Really want cigarette. Force self to focus.

1:12 p.m. Keep making typos all over screen. Have to rewind damn dicatation tape over and over. Fingers don't seem to belong to self at all but to have begun some sort of rebellion where they dance all over keys in some kind of code telling me things that make no sense. Forcibly take control. Am supreme dictator of fingers.

1:15 p.m. Despair. I lurrrved him. Now he's gone and I'll never see or hear or touch or smell him again.

1:17 p.m. WANT CIGARETTE.

1:20 p.m. Finally done with dictation. Nobody in office. Cigarette!

1:21 p.m. Left cigarettes in car. Damn. No, good. Very good girl. Don't need filthy nasty evil noisome candy of Satan. Will power through momentary despair entirely on positive self-talk and force of will. Will be fine.

1:22 p.m. Must have drug of some kind. Will nip upstairs to break room for cup of coffee.

1:30 p.m. Spent seven minutes staring blankly down at sunny breeze-swept street. Am going to be alone for rest of life and wind up creaking in nursing home rocking chair with no visitors being beaten by attendants with bedpans. Brain knows Boy is Fascist idiot, but heart still hurts about it. Really liked Boy. Know he won't call, would force self not to pick up phone if he did call, but wish he would call so at least could ignore him and not feel cast off like old mitten.

3:19 p.m. Head hurts. Brain gradually persuading heart that heart is wrong and brain is right. Body not listening. Want cigarette.

* With acknowledgments to Helen Fielding.