The Saga: Survival Report 5

Cupids. Listen.

I think I might be in trouble.
It’s not what you think. Sorry to disappoint. Trust me, I might be too. 

Today, at the [redacted], the program director asked how long we’ve been together. As in a COUPLE.

I couldn’t deny it fast enough. Mr. NCOhMyGod, though? His objection shot out so fast, it practically created a sonic boom. But tell me why I was disappointed that he objected so quickly? 

Which makes no sense, because I objected too! Vehemently. My math? Not mathing right now. 

Back to the trouble I mentioned: The boss suggested extending the work partnership. Indefinitely. Because Sergeant SixPack and I work so well together. He’s not wrong. We’ve been working together for weeks, we’re basically Sherlock and Watson. Abbott and Costello. Ren and Stimpy. Pinky and the Brain. 

I’m the brain. 

Should I have seen this coming? Probably. But Mr Flex McChesticles was in the way and I couldn’t see over the massive size of his… ego. He knows exactly what he’s doing. It’s like he creates new ways to torture me. For fun. And I’m never sure which version of him I’m getting–sometimes it changes hourly. Like Forest Gump’s metaphorical box of chocolates. 

Most days, I’m prepared. But today, I was not. 

Because, for like, five minutes, something magical happened. We had a real conversation. Not about work. And he remembered things about me that… maybe I mentioned in passing? Small, mundane details no man’s bothered to retain about me or my life since… well, ever. And what’s more, he tossed out a factoid or two about himself. 

Yes, Cupids, I’ll admit it. I like it. Turns out there’s an actual person behind every flex and innuendo. 

Who knew? 

My best friend. That’s who. She’s never met him. But shes been team #LetsGetItOn. And now I don’t think I’ll be able to unsee it. 

Alas, it only lasted for less than ten minutes. Because the other thing I haven’t been able to unsee? The empty void behind those pretty blue eyes of his. However, I can still appreciate the view without having to be part of him. AMIRIGHT?

It made me think about what I want in a man–like a wishlist. You know, besides the obvious: a job, his own ride, and doesn’t live with his mom. 

Probably someone tall and broad enough that I feel small beside him. Strong arms that could protect me but gentle bear claw hands that would never hurt me. 

Like, he can bring me coffee and snacks, but can also fight lions and tigers and bears. By the way, Mr. NCOhMyGod’s hands? Fucking huge. Could start a pay site and call it OnlyHands. Just pictures of his hands holding things. Cups. Breakfast sandwiches. Dishes. Laundry. Me. All the things. I digress. 

Someone who doesn’t drain me. Gives as much as I do, maybe even more. Remembers the little things because I actually matter to him (get it? Because I’m little). Makes me feel like he’s been waiting for me his whole life. His eyes would light up ever time I walk into a room, not because of what might happen later. Just because. Me. 

Can you manifest your own Prince Charming? How does that work? Is it like saying Candyman three times in a mirror, go to sleep and–poof–I get one? A prince, not the Candyman. 

No. I already know what you’re thinking–it’s not Mr. NCOhMyGod. He made it clear from day one he’s not interested in anything serious. With anyone. Including me. And I can respect that. 

Do I wish it could be him? Fuck yeah. But if I’m being honest, he’d be too much work. With the way his mind is always in the gutter, I’d probably never get a break. We’d never get any work done. 

Speaking of, the project ends in [redacted]. 

But also, it might not. I might be stuck with Major McHotHands until either he retires or I quit.

Pretending it wouldn’t be the worst thing. 

~ In Crisis Mode