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Since I've temporarily dusted this old thing off, I might as well use it, right? I just need a place to think, and my head's a bit too cluttered these days.
Whoever said sleeping with your boss could only lead to pain and heartache was more right than he knew. Actually, I'm not even sure that's a saying, but it should be, and I think the sentiment is at least partially right. I mean, sure, sometimes all it leads to is promotions and more respect from other colleagues, assuming they don't know how you got your position, but sometimes it leads to ridicule, heartache, and/or blackmail, and I'm pretty sure that's not entirely pleasant.
Crap, I can't even focus here.
Mark isn't my boss. I'm not sleeping with him to get ahead. (God, that's begging for a really bad pun....) And if I were going to do the sex-for-moneycareer-stability thing, god knows I'd go straight to the station manager. I totally caught her eyeing my ass at the Christmas party and she's not entirely hard on the eyes, as far as women in their mid-40's go.
But back to Mark. He's 35, amazing abs, sharp delivery, and that sort of sly smile that on a five-year-old makes you go, "OMG, he's so cute, he's probably such a trouble-maker! I just wanna hug him and squeeze him!" but on a thirty-five-year-old makes you go, "God damn. I bet he's dynamite in bed!"
Which he is. But that's not the point. The point is that he's an anchor. He's got aspirations, goals, and he knows how to get what he wants. His popularity meter in NYC is on the rise and he's even filled in on Today a few times. He's looking to make the move to national news and, well, bottom line, if I weren't screwing him, I'd want to slap the snark right off of his face. Sometimes I still do.
Be that as it may, we somehow slipped under the radar well enough to schedule coinciding vacation time, which translated into what was supposed to be a complete sex-fest in Aruba, but in actuality turned into something a lot deeper when he got the call that the station wanted him on a flight to Tokyo ASAP.
Deeper for me, that is. Maybe my journalistic shell isn't hard enough yet, but while I know Mark looks around and sees media gold, I look around and I can't imagine going back to my sweet, cushy apartment in the city. There was no way I was going to miss out on tagging along with him to cover this story, even if that meant our own cover was blown, but...I don't know. We went to this village a few miles from Sendai a couple of days ago, just so Pete could get some stock footage and Mark could catch a straggler or two for an interview. (Of course he speaks Japanese.)
On our way out, we passed a shelter and stopped so that he could get a few more sound bites. There were a couple of young boys outside kicking around a ball and, being the immature semi-adult that I am, I joined in. They laughed and I didn't understand a word of what they said, but it was just nice to see them smile.
Call me an idiot or idealistic, but I think something as simple as a smile can be what hope is all about. Mark doesn't see it, doesn't want to see it, doesn't care. In his mind, he's already halfway back to the city. To "civilization." In fact, they're saying we're out of here in 48 hours. A part of me wants to try to stay, but realistically I know there's nothing I can do except get in the way. I don't speak the language. I'm not an engineer or a trained medical professional. That doesn't stop me from wishing I could do something. And really, it won't help me to sleep better once I'm nestled between my 300 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, either.
At least one good thing has come from this. I'm so over the sex thing. With Mark, at least. Right now, I don't even want to touch him with a ten foot pole.
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