Behind His Back Read Online Free PDF Page B

squeezing my glutes in alternating bursts against the ledge. Whatever material the sill is made of, I want my ass to be harder than it.
    “Is there a rational reason why you’ve got so many files saved to your desktop?” he asks in his Asperger’s monotone.
    I tell him file organization isn’t my bag, and he harrumphs in disapproval.
    Fuck the Matrix. Our company has only one IT person, so we all have to put up with him, but fuck him just the same.
    The Matrix’s real name is—is it Chris? Something with a C anyway, and Nicole gave him the nickname based on the framed movie poster in his foul-smelling office—and because whenever he opens his mouth he sounds like he’s speaking in code. I don’t think he’s aware of the moniker, but he’d probably take it as a compliment. It’s pretty easy to peg the Matrix as a guy who never got laid in college. He’s fat, unfashionably bespectacled, and completely void of social grace. And he’s spent most of his life filling his sizeable head with technical knowledge that he can lord over all of the women who refuse to fuck him.
    “I don’t know how you can eat that for breakfast,” Nicole tells me. “How do you live without bagels? It’s like spreading cream cheese on an orgasm.” Nicole is a master of speaking her mind as though no one else is listening. The Matrix nearly jumps out of my chair when she says orgasm .
    “And why are bagels verboten?” he asks, his voice full of snark. He needs to regain his composure by putting someone down.
    “Because I’m avoiding gluten,” I say. I realize my mistake by the second syllable. I’ve fallen right into his trap.
    He’s so excited by my clumsy setup that he spins in my chair to face me. “Can you even tell me what gluten is?” he says.
    I can, as a matter of fact, but Nicole comes to my rescue before I can shut him down.
    “It’s a toxin or something,” she says.
    “Ha!” he snorts, spinning back around to face her. “A toxin!” I’m almost certain that he’s brewing a tiny erection.
    “Gluten is a sticky, pernicious protein found in the gliadin family of grains,” I say before he can take his tirade any further. “It’s been linked to intestinal leakage and a host of other autoimmune issues. And based on how sweaty you are when you waddle out of the men’s room every morning, I’m guessing it’s something you should look into.”
    Holy fuck. Did I just manage to out-science him while calling him fat and poking fun at his bowel movements in one fell swoop? I’ve blown past devolving into a frat boy and become a straight-up high school bully. And it feels kind of good.
    The Matrix stammers for a comeback, but all he comes up with is a sarcastic “Very funny.” He mashes his fat fingers agitatedly against my keyboard and tells me I’m all set, and then he trundles out of my office, avoiding eye contact with Nicole as he passes her.
    “Where the actual fuck did that come from?” Nicole asks once he’s out of earshot. She’s giddy in the glow of my victory.
    “No idea,” I say, though I’m pretty sure it has something to do with the fact that I could now kick the Matrix’s ass—or at least squat more than him. Not that it would be much of a feat.
    Before we can fully analyze the exchange, Sophie, a skinny editorial intern with a penchant for ill-fitting cardigans, pops her head in beside Nicole to remind us we’re due for a meeting in the Serenity room.
    “Fuck,” we both say.
    In any other workplace, the Serenity room would be a plain-old meeting room. Its only serene characteristic is the orchid in the center of the table. The room’s nauseating name is a testament to the New Age bent of Cecelia, our sole HR person, who spent last summer in Nepal. And the fact that intern Sophie is the only one who actually calls the room by its proper name is a testament to her greenness and eagerness to please everyone.
    I stare at intern Sophie from across the table while we wait for everyone else