The guy who wants to knock me up
If he believes in fate, I'm screwed.
I used to see him every week, just the two of us, alone in his windowless office, where he fantasized about having preggo sex with me. It's not his fault; he's a family guy. Maybe he shouldn't have let me in on his long-term vision, though, or that he thought there could ever be an "us". After all, he was a branch representative at my neighbourhood bank, the guy who cashed my paycheques. And, I wasn't interested.
Almost four years ago to-date, I wrote about how I'd not be seeing him again, that all the entirely unfair, completely unethical special treatment I so enjoyed at the expense of other customers, would no longer be mine.
I would, from that day forward, have to stand in line at the bank like the rest of you. I whined about that, and you gave me no sympathy.
Well, he's back. After a few years of working in the one-block heart of Montreal's financial district, he's been promoted. Promoted and transferred to my new neighbourhood bank, by coincidence. Not fate. No, no, no. Not fate.
Now he's the über-confident Supreme Manager of (fancy-title-my-brain-can't-retain), or something, and he remembers my name. First and last. He remembers with a gleam in his eye, and ants in his pants. Oh, crap.