Until, the day after, when Eros disappeared. Apparently, he had to go on a last-minute month-long secondment. Psy would have been fine with this if Eros had actually bothered to talk to her while he was away, but the few times he had replied to texts, the replies had been monosyllabic, casual, veering on cold. Eventually she had just stopped trying. She respected and loved herself far more than she loved Eros. It was fine. They were fine. She was more than fine. She was grateful she wasn’t on the receiving end of his rejection-by-rote monologue that he sent to his casual hook-ups. When Eros got back from his time away, he had stopped by her desk and looped her into an easy hug, and told her that he’d missed her, that he was sorry he was so errant, but his schedule had been hectic. He had said it breezily, in a way so devoid of awkwardness and tension that she knew he’d meant it as a friend. She’d rolled up her feelings and then rolled her eyes and said, well, she hadn’t missed him at all, arrogant prick. He’d smiled and called her a liar. Which she was. She was a liar. She had missed him as much as she loved him. Which was a lot.
Eventually they had just slipped back into their usual banter. They both operated within the tacit agreement that the friendship they had was too valuable to lose. At some point it got easier for Psy to be around him, to breathe around him, for her heart not to sting around him.
Now, for some reason （maybe the repressed memory had become tired of being suffocated）， that night had unfurled in Psy’s mind, crept out of her mouth and calcified into a crisp awkwardness between them.
Psy swallowed. ‘I, uh . . . I was joking. I didn’t mean to bring that up, E,’ she stuttered, as the people from the lift streamed past them. ‘Sorry. I just . . . I guess what I’m trying to say is that I have given up a lot for this job. It means a lot. I know you’re trying to help, but . . . maybe don’t trivialise it? Understand that it’s a big deal.’
‘Psy—’
Psy passed the coffee back to him. ‘Nope! We— Let’s not do this. Seriously. I’m good. We are good. I’m really nervous about today and I’m saying things I don’t mean. Thank you for the shirt. I appreciate you. I have to go.’
And Eros let her go, just as he had six months before.
When Eros offered Psy a tour, the first day they met, she looked at him like he was a specimen for scientific study, with sparkling, shrewd eyes that ran across him in fascination. It was like she was saying, so this is what a Shallow Fuckboi is like . . .
‘Is that what you do with all the new girls? Give them a tour and, in doing so, point out all the best spots to make out? Establish yourself as a friendly, welcoming face, so they imprint on you like a duckling?’ Her voice was gently enquiring and non-accusatory. She was holding a coffee as she leant against the copy machine.
Eros wouldn’t have put it in exactly those terms. He opened his mouth to smile, disarm, but the way she was looking at him made him acutely aware of the taste of his own bullshit. He rubbed the back of his neck, ran a hand through his curls and nodded. ‘Yeah. I mean . . . that’s usually what happens. But the beauty of it is that, by doing it, on the first day they get tired of me quite quickly. An office romance is a rite of passage, so I just help them get it out of their way so they can focus on the corporate ladder—’
‘Ah. So you’re doing them a favour—’
‘Exactly.’
‘You think you’re easy to get tired of?’
Psy never let him get away with anything. She had a way of sharply swerving the journey of the conversation, making it more interesting, making him unsure of the destination. All his usual breezy, self-deprecating flirtation got heavier when she got a hold of it, turned it around in her incisive, curious mind and gave it back to him, showing him his own soul. It freaked him out, but he kind of liked it. He really liked it. He wasn’t the god of his own destiny when she was around.
Before he figured out a reply, Psy was smiling. It was warm and soft, and to Eros it looked like the perfect place to lie in and just be. He wanted to sink into it. ‘Show me all the alcohol stashes in the office. I think I’m gonna need them.’
Eros fell in love the moment he met Psy. He knew enough about what love wasn’t to know exactly what it was. He had had his flirtationships, transient stints, late nights, tequila-tainted kisses, quick unzipping and clothes ripping, but it was all empty, with both parties knowing that their connection wouldn’t last until the morning. It was clean, it was controlled and Eros had been certain it was enough. Until he met Psy. Then he became intensely cognisant of the gaping vacuum surrounding the Enough. He realised that it was possible to be connected to someone without being physically connected, that when it was real, when it was true, there was no clean, no control, it just happened and it was beautiful and messy and spilt out of him, making his game malfunction.