Green-Eyed Monster Conclusion: Time in a Bottle

The next morning when Alan arrived at work Miranda was at her desk, yawning.

"I've just arrived myself," she said. "I'll get your coffee in just a minute."

"Don't trouble yourself. I'll get it," he said.

He entered his office, set down his briefcase and hung up his coat. He then went immediately to the break room to get his coffee and decided to make one for Miranda too. On his way back to his office he passed Ethan in the hallway.

Alan stopped. "Good morning, Ethan!" He said with mock brightness.

Ethan glanced up at him and scowled. His lip was split and his jaw bruised.

"Oh dear, young Ethan! It appears you've been in a scuffle. Whatever happened?"

"Nothing," Ethan muttered, passing quickly down the hall.

Alan continued on and met with Denny.

"Did you have anything to do with Ethan's lip?"

"What are you talking about?"

"His lip is split open and his jaw is bruised."

Denny shrugged.

"Denny," Alan said warningly, "Did you do something to him?"

"No."

"Maybe you did and forgot."

"No. But I shot him."

"You did. Do you recall if you shot him in the face?"

"I don't think so. Should I shoot him again? I could. I shoot better with a target."

"No thanks, Denny; you've done quite enough." Alan smiled and said proudly, "Denny Crane."

"That's right. Don't forget it."

"I couldn't possibly."

Miranda was at the filing cabinet.

Alan handed one of the coffees to her. "I come bearing a gift."

"Thank you so much. That was next on my list. Give me just a second here." She ran her fingers over the tops of the files looking for the right spot to place the folder she held.

As she pushed the file into place he sidled up to her and whispered, "It seems as if your little friend Ethan has been involved in a scuffle."

She closed the filing cabinet drawer and looked at him, concerned. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I just passed him in the hallway and noticed his lip is split open and bruised. I wonder what could have happened."

She took her cup from Alan, leaned against the cabinet and sipped her coffee. "That's odd. I don't know," she said thoughtfully. "I haven't seen him."

"So he hasn't said anything to you about it?"

"No, I just told you. I haven't seen him this morning."

"Curious."

"Yes."

"You know, Miranda," he squinted, studying her, "I love puzzles."

"I know; so do I."

He placed a hand on the filing cabinet, cornering her against it, "And when I come across a puzzle that I can't solve, it drives me mad. I'm unable to quit until I've completed the entire thing."

Her blue feline eyes drifted over his face, studying him. "Not me. I eventually get frustrated."

"Then what?"

"I either cheat to somehow get the answers or I give up for awhile, telling myself I'll come back to it later."

"And do you come back to it?"

"Not often. Most puzzles just aren't that captivating; they're easy to forget about. But there have been a few times when I picked up the puzzle again and completed it."

He gazed at her, the wall behind his eyes, his keen lawyer's mind peeling away her layers, exposing her in a way that made her uneasy. She took his coffee mug and set it on top of the filing cabinet along with hers. She hugged him, nestling her ear against his chest.

He did not anticipate this and was a little taken aback; he stiffened.

"I've missed you," she sighed, listening to his heart beat. "The past few days have been lonely and it feels like everything has been out of sync."

"Indeed." His body relaxed and he wrapped his arms around her waist.

She looked up into his face then kissed him tenderly on the lips. He closed his eyes, melting.

That night Miranda entered Alan's office.

"I'm calling it a night. What about you?"

"I still have a few things to do."

She approached, graceful as a cat, and perched on the corner of his desk; she reached into her handbag and pulled out a square package wrapped in pink paper.

"What's this?"

"Today is Valentine's Day."

His face brightened. "You got me a gift? Miranda, I'm touched."

She shrugged. "I guess I could have waited to give this to you, but you've seemed a little melancholy today."

He held the package and looked at it for a moment, his brightness graying into guilt. "But I shouldn't accept this. I didn't get you anything." He held it out to her. He grew somber, "In fact, I long ago gave up on Valentine's…and all it represents."

"Nor did I expect a gift. And actually, I despise this so-called holiday; it's shallow and ridiculous. Love should be celebrated every day, not once a year." She pushed back on the gift, "Nevertheless, I wanted to share this little something with you; it just happens to fall on this day. But don't get excited, it's nothing lavish or extravagant—just something I couldn't resist."

He gazed at her, running his thumb over the smooth paper.

"Go ahead. Open it before it becomes outdated."

He tore open the paper, opened the box lid, and said, "You got me a…" He lifted it out of the box and tissue paper. "Calendar?"

She smiled. "Open it."

The January picture was of him and Denny smiling into the camera, holding drinks, their arms around each other.

He smiled. "Denny's birthday party."

"Yes."

He flipped through the rest of the pictures—pictures of all the people who most touched his life: Denny, Shirley, Jerry; there were even pictures of him and Miranda together.

"We had fun that night," he said, looking at a picture of Miranda sitting in his lap.

"We did have fun." She leaned over to look at the picture. "I think we do make a cute couple."

"I think June is my favorite," he said, holding up the picture of him, Denny, and Miranda toasting Denny's birthday.

"I like that one too. We make a cute threesome."

Alan laughed. "Indeed." He closed it gently and placed it on the desk. "Thank you, Miranda," he said warmly. "It's one of the best gifts I've ever received."

"I wanted you to have it because sometimes you say things that…" she wavered.

"What things?"

"You say things that hint at a certain perception—a perception that you think you aren't loved or cared about. Then there are times when you seem rather misanthropic—though I can certainly understand why."

"In this job it's difficult to have much hope in humanity's goodness."

She nodded. "But I guess I wanted to prove to you that when the whole world seems to revile you or when you feel as if you revile the whole world, there are a few people, albeit a very few, who truly love and care about you."

"At least for this year."

She chuckled. "Next year we'll compare calendars to see if anything's changed." She winked.

He smiled at her sadly. "Yes," he said quietly. He thought of the song, Time in a Bottle. The first lyrics running through his mind: If I could save time in a bottle / The first thing that I'd like to do / Is to save every day / Till Eternity passes away / Just to spend them with you….

He seemed to grow suddenly distant so Miranda asked, breaking his reverie, "What are you thinking about?"

"Jim Croce."

She tilted her head and eyed him questioningly. "I'm not sure what that means." She tapped the box. "There's more." She lifted an ultra thin package out of the box.

"More?" He brightened.

He tore the paper off and lifted up the pictures of Miranda, wearing nothing but a pink feather boa and heels in various tasteful poses.

He gasped. "Oh my." He placed his hand to his heart. "It's what I've wanted for the longest time. You remembered."

"I did."

"Though I have to say, Bradley lent this costume a certain indescribable charm."

She laughed.

"Who took these? This person has a wonderful eye. And whenever did you find the time?"

"Well, one of the nights when you called and couldn't reach me, I was posing for the pictures."

"What about the other night?"

"The phone was silenced. I told you."

"Who took them? In case I want copies," he said, gazing lovingly at the pictures. "This one is my favorite," he said, holding up it up for her to see.

"Ethan took the pictures."

Alan looked up, froze in shock. When he realized his mouth hung open, he snapped it shut.

"You're angry."

"I'm certainly surprised."

"Please listen before you jump to any conclusions."

"Go on."

"I told him about the calendar I was having made for my boss—you."

"Right."

"Then I told him that I also wanted to have some tastefully naughty pictures made for my boyfriend—also you."

"Okay."

"Of course, I didn't tell him that my boss and my boyfriend were one and the same."

"I'm your boyfriend? I didn't realize we were exclusive."

"It's just the term I used. Does the word 'lover' work better for you?"

"It does."

"Anyway…" she rolled her eyes, and flipped her hair off her shoulder. "I just bought this townhome, so I was a little short on money and Ethan offered to do the pictures for only the printing costs. He said that he was a double major in school—law and photography. He showed me his portfolio and, as you see, he is a talented photographer."

"Yes."

"At first I declined. I told him it wouldn't be a good idea since we work together. He said he would be very discreet, everything would be kept confidential—and to top it off, he said he was gay. So based on this information, I believed I had nothing to worry about. I mean why would anyone lie about being gay? Most people lie about being straight." She paused.

"And?"

"And, so I went to his house. He had all the equipment. I sat for the pictures and everything was carried off with the greatest of professionalism. I swear. But…"

"But?" Alan's face tensed.

"As I was about to leave, he tried to make a pass …"

"Please tell me you are responsible for his lip."

"I am. He grabbed me, tried to kiss me. So I punched him."

The tension in Alan's face dissolved "You punched him?" His eyes glimmered.

She nodded.

He smiled. "That's my girl."

"He deserved it. You said he wasn't what he seemed."

"I won't say I told you so." He said with mock seriousness

"Thanks." She rolled her eyes. "But how did you know?"

"Let's just say that over the years, I've develop a finely tuned ability for detecting other letches."

"I suppose I should have listened," she admitted grudgingly.

"I'm determined not to say those four little words as much as I'm itching to do so."

"I told you so," she mocked. "Does that make you feel better?"

"It does."

She laughed. "So…I have an idea," she said.

"Yes?"

"How about you hurry up and finish whatever you're doing here, go have your balcony time with Denny, then afterward you come to my place for dinner and a night of …" She leaned in and kissed him softly.

He moaned lightly.

"Is eight good?"

"Yes." He whispered.

She pulled back. "I'm going to go start dinner." She shifted to move from the desk but he touched her knee gently.

"The other day when you said, 'it isn't worth it' were you talking about me? Am I not worth it?" He seemed to hold his breath as he watched her and waited for her answer.

She studied him for a moment. "That's not at all what I meant. I was deciding whether or not to have the last word; if it would be worth it to fight over something that was relatively trivial. I decided it was not worth it for me to have the last word that day. I just said what popped into my mind right then."

He released his breath, a hint of a smile.

"There's something else," he said.

"Yes?"

"Did you ever…" He wasn't able to finish the sentence and felt utterly foolish, like a high school boy. Her presence always reduced him to that state of insecurity and doubt—much against his will. He felt out of control around her—an unfamiliar and sickening feeling.

"Are you trying to ask me if I liked Ethan?"

"I'm ashamed to admit it, but yes." He looked at her steadily, attempting to veil the anxiety in his eyes.

She scoffed then laughed. "Heavens, no! Shall I list the myriad ways he repulsed me? First, he had very little refinement or sophistication; second, I'm not sure how he got through law school because he isn't the brightest person I've ever met; third, he listens to rap music—which makes me cringe; fourth, he is way too young and green, wears his ball caps backward; and lastly, but certainly not least in my book: he had never heard of Byron and he hates poetry—said he didn't 'get it.' How could I possibly be attracted to someone like that? Give me some credit, Alan. If I were ever going to leave you for another man, he would have a pretty tall order to fill."

"He'd probably be an English professor."

Her sexy, throaty laugh floated through the air. He felt a tingle low in his belly. "Maybe; though I've recently acquired a taste for radical, albeit altruistic, lawyers." She winked.

He smiled. "That's my girl."

She laughed and shook her head. "Good Lord, Alan. I can't believe you thought I liked him. You, my darling, are incredibly overworked and in desperate need of a vacation." She kissed his cheek. "I'll see you soon for dinner. Don't keep me waiting."

Again, she tried to slide off the desk, but he touched her knee to stay her.

"Miranda." He kept his eyes lowered.

"Yes?"

"I…" A lump caught in his throat. He continued nervously, "I really like the way you smell. You smell really, really good." He felt a little guilty for using this expression with another woman, but he didn't have a code with Miranda yet. He couldn't possibly say what he needed, wanted to say without a code; it had simply been too long since he said the real thing. Then it occurred to him that she probably wouldn't understand his meaning. He lifted his eyes and searched her face.

She looked at him for a moment, puzzled. What on earth was he talking about? And out of the blue he decides to mention her perfume?

Alan couldn't stand the intensity of her silence. "I just…" He took a deep nervous breath and without breaking his gaze said, "Thought you should know. It's important for people to tell each other that they smell good." He exhaled nervously.

She studied him, sensed his vulnerability. His meaning was now clear to her. She nodded. "You're right, Alan. People should be better about saying those things. I really like the way you smell too. I have for some time now. In fact, of the men I've known, I think you smell the best." She placed a gentle kiss on his forehead, then his lips. "I'll see you soon." She slid off the desk and disappeared.

His eyes stung a little. He exhaled again, set his jaw, and then gathered his things to go see Denny.

Later in the early morning hours, Miranda lay against Alan's chest on the rug in front of the fireplace.

"Do you hear that?" She said.

He listened. "What?"

"The beautiful silence—no boom music from the street."

He chuckled. "Is it possible these people have significant others keeping them busy tonight?"

"Anything is possible I suppose. It must be a Valentine's Day miracle." She giggled.

He lay quietly, thinking, while he toyed with Miranda's hair.

"Are you thinking about Jim Croce again?" She said.

"Actually at this specific moment, I'm thinking about a book I've been reading about sea lice."

"Sea lice?" She laughed. "You're lying in bed with me after what I thought was an incredible love-making session and you're thinking about sea lice? I'm intrigued to know how the two relate."

He chuckled. "Salmon."

"Salmon?"

"Yes. When I think of salmon, I think of spawning and vice versa. And since we just spawned, so to speak, I thought of salmon, which led me to the sea lice."

She laughed.

He lifted a strand of her hair and watched it fall then he smoothed it down. "I've been thinking something else."

"What's that?"

"When you called me your boyfriend…"

"What about it?"

"Am I your boyfriend?"

"I told you, it was just a term I used; it simplifies explanations to people. What are you driving at, Alan?"

He sat up on his elbow, propping his head on his hand. He placed his other hand on her hip. "I've been thinking that perhaps you and I could make this…exclusive."

She did not conceal her surprise. "Wow. I'm astonished. But don't you have a tendency to leave? Isn't that what you once told me?"

"I did say that. And it has been a particular tendency of mine."

"So are you telling me that you don't want to leave?"

"I can't promise I won't leave someday. But what I can tell you is that right now and for the most proximal, foreseeable future I want to be with you."

She smiled coyly, her voice suppressing a laugh. "And what in your mind constitutes a 'proximal, foreseeable future'? Two weeks? Three?"

"At least." He teased.

She laughed and pushed his shoulder playfully. "Jerk."

"It occurs to me that you haven't yet answered," he said.

"I don't know what to say, Alan."

"Ah. Not quite the answer I had hoped for. Should I be jealous?"

"There's only you silly. I just feel like things are moving so quickly, maybe too quickly. A lot has happened to me this year."

"A slow pace is dull."

"Yes, but a candle that burns too quickly soon burns itself out—like passions."

"So are you saying 'no'?"

She idly stroked his chest.

"For a while, I just want to be. You know what I mean?"

A crooked smile crossed his lips. "Turns out you're talking to one of the few people who is capable of understanding exactly what you mean."

"Are you…upset with me?"

"No. Take your time."

She kissed him softly. She said, touching his face, looking warmly in his eyes, "I'm here right now. And at this time, I don't have any plans of being anywhere else. Is that good enough? Can you live with that?"

"It is and I can."

He kissed her and pulled her body against his. "Will you promise me one thing?"

"Depends on what it is."

"If you decide you don't want to be here anymore, will you at least let me know?"

She wrapped her leg around him. "I will promise you on one condition." She kissed him.

"What's that?"

"That you promise the same thing to me." They kissed again.

Alan reached over and hit the play button on the CD player remote to play track 6. The light, lilting guitar music drifted out over them, bittersweet and haunting:

If I could save time in a bottle
The first thing that I'd like to do
Is to save every day
Till Eternity passes away
Just to spend them with you…

"You have my word. Shall we consummate our pledge?"

She pinned him to the floor and growled playfully. "Let's."

If I could make days last forever
If words could make wishes come true
I'd save every day like a treasure and then,
Again, I would spend them with you

But there never seems to be enough time
To do the things you want to do
Once you find them

I've looked around enough to know
That you're the one I want to go
Through time with

If I had a box just for wishes
And dreams that had never come true
The box would be empty
Except for the memory
Of how they were answered by you

But there never seems to be enough time
To do the things you want to do
Once you find them

I've looked around enough to know
That you're the one I want to go
Through time with