She's Got Mail!: She's Got Mail! / Forget Me? Not. Darlene Gardner

yesterday, but she almost preferred his look today. Unshaven. Rumpled. Dangerous. Her heart thumped erratically. “Looking dangerous is good for a lawyer, right?” she said, trying to cover her slip.

      He gave her a look that escalated her heartbeats from mere thumping to wild boom-booming. When he raked a hand through his hair, she felt her own scalp prickle. God, what would it be like to be touched by a rumpled, dangerous man like Ben? To writhe nakedly in some exotic locale?

      “Let’s skip the agreement and just mark the schedule on our calendars.”

      “Yes,” she said, a bit too breathlessly. She was losing it. Rosie Myers, who could beat guys at Ping-Pong, sprints and the long jump was losing it, big time, in front of Benjamin Taylor.

      “And as we discussed, tomorrow’s my day.”

      Yes sir! Nothing like a little bossiness to put a damper on a heat rush. Sheesh, this guy was more territorial than ol’ Mr. Harrison, the pharmacist who gave his own tickets to people who parked in front of his drug store. Even though the police continually warned Mr. Harrison that the street was city property, he still gave tickets, griping that he had parking rights in front of his business. Because of his age, everybody in town put up with cranky Mr. Harrison. Some people even paid their tickets.

      “You know,” Rosie said, rising. “I could give you my phone number so if you ever needed a quick ten minutes, even an hour, you could call me.”

      Ben set his cup down so hard, a ceramic blue fish on his desk shook. “I, uh, don’t think that will, uh, be necessary.” But his head-to-toe devouring look said something else—that maybe he’d like that?

      Or maybe she’d imagined that look, just as she’d imagined too many other things with Benjamin Taylor. “No—no,” she stammered, trying to clarify, “I meant if you ever needed a quick ten minutes in the parking space. For parking. Not for…” She suddenly felt as though she were running a fever. Hot. Too hot. She’d never invoke this new Boom Boom goddess again. “To-tomorrow’s your day.” Not waiting for any response, Rosie speed-walked out of his office, past his eight o’clock—some guy dressed in a three-piece suit—and out the door.

      Only when she was outside did she realize she had stolen another mug. My Fair Lady. Feeling anything but, she jogged toward the elevators.

      “BENNY, you look so-o-o much better!” Heather cooed, cradling the phone in the crook of her neck while filing her nails. “I’d hardly know you’d been slugged except for your red jaw!”

      Ben, showered and dressed in slacks and a shirt, halted in the doorway and closed his eyes. “Not while you’re on the phone, Heather,” he admonished quietly.

      “Not what?”

      He opened his eyes. “Don’t say such…personal things to me. I’d prefer my reputation at work to remain professional.” He was one to talk. He’d interviewed his 8:10 appointment dressed in a wrinkled, muddied sweat suit.

      Heather stopped filing. Waving the receiver, she said, “It’s Carla, not one of your clients!”

      How long had they been having this discussion? A hundred, a thousand times? Maybe he should quit fighting it. Save his energy for commode filchers and parking space thieves. “Tell Carla hello,” he mumbled, crossing to his office. Stepping into his inner sanctum, he tossed his workout bag into the corner before sitting behind his desk. To the right was a stack of folders, each holding relevant papers for a case in progress. He reached for the top folder when a white envelope in the center of his desk caught his eye.

      On its front, in black ink, was boldly printed “To: Wishing to Move from Venus to Mars.”

      Mr. Real wrote back! Finally! Ben wasn’t alone in a world of women. Ben ripped open the envelope, wadded and tossed it into the trash can. Pulling out the letter, he began reading: “Mr. Mars:”

      Ben had liked that in all of Mr. Real’s responses. The guy had class. No matter the tone of the writer—and some got heated—or how the writer had signed his name, Mr. Real always called everyone Mr., Mrs., or Ms. Not only was he a man’s man, but a gentleman. Ben read on: “You ask why women are so needy? My conjecture is that you still seek those same types of relationships with other women.”

      “Get down, Mr. Real!” Ben whispered to himself. This guy isn’t just a columnist, he’s a shrink. Leaning back in his chair, Ben continued reading: “Other types of women exist in the world: independent, adventurous, a man’s equal. Too many men look for the superficial and miss the substance.”

      Ben pondered that last sentence for a moment. A woman being a man’s equal? He wasn’t born yesterday. He knew all about Gloria Steinem and the women’s movement. It’s just that Ben had never experienced a relationship with a woman who was his equal, who wanted to be his equal. He’d always taken care of women, been absorbed into their problems, issues. “No wonder I became a lawyer,” he murmured, reading on. “For whatever reasons in your background, it’s evident you’re feeling trapped. Let’s investigate that. You say you’re a nice guy. That you have a couple of manipulative exes and a strange woman who wants your space. My question to you: What is your space? Your world, your home, your office?”

      Ben looked around at the variety of decorating themes in his office. This wasn’t a space—it was a high-end flea market. Shaking his head, he went back to the letter. “Right now, you’re wanting to move from planet to planet. I’m impressed. That’s one big move. I suggest you first pick a different space—a vital space. If you can’t share it, then place your stakes. As with most things in life, it’s best to start small, then think big. After all, every journey begins with a single step. Respectfully yours, Mr. Real”

      “You should have seen my journey this morning,” Ben muttered, thinking of the hundreds of steps he took along those long blocks into work. He probably could have handled it if he hadn’t been slipped that quarter. Forget the insult—what could a quarter buy in today’s world? Ben made a mental note to give a dollar to the next homeless person he met.

      But back to the letter. Share a space…He already did! His bathroom, his office. But find a space to mark his territory? Good thinking. A small, first step. Ben tapped his fingers against the desk. Small space. Small.

      The parking space! Which was definitely small compared to Mars and Venus. He nodded to himself. He’d build from there—like, next claim his office, then his bathroom. Soon he’d be claiming his right to take on the world, to dust off his kayak and discover regions unknown.

      A warmth flooded his veins, a feeling he hadn’t known in years. Satisfaction? Anticipation? If he didn’t know better, it was almost like falling in love, something he hadn’t experienced in a long, long time. Of course, this wasn’t really falling in love—it was luxuriating in a moment of euphoria. One small step for Benkind, one giant step…

      “To Mars!” he said out loud. “I’m building a new life!”

      “What?” called out Heather from the other room. The thunk thunk of footsteps preceded a waterfall of blond hair as she peeked into his office. “You’re building something? In here?”

      Ben looked at her platform shoes. Talk about building—Heather built an extra inch or three to her height when she wore those leg-tottering shoes. “I’m not building anything. I was just experiencing a moment of exuberance.”

      She looked around the office. “Alone?” Flashing him a perplexed look, she added, “I’ve been worried about you lately, Benny.”

      That confession took Ben by surprise. “You’re worried about…me?”

      “Yeah.” She sidled into the doorway. Today she wore a shift covered with purple butterflies and pink flowers. Heather missed her calling as a flower child. “You seem—” she tilted her head as she scrutinized him “—more preoccupied lately.”

      “Preoccupied?”

      “Yeah. Like the couch. When Meredith has needed to redecorate before, you’ve