I wake up Saturday morning hungover and disoriented. It takes me a moment to realize I'm in my own bed, still wearing my clothes from the night before. My head is throbbing. I stagger to the bathroom and run a shower. I peel off my sticky clothing, stand beneath the hot stream and try to piece together what happened.
Last night, my coworker Tom and two of his buddies from the office drugged me at a company happy hour. They drove us to a secluded parking lot and had their way with me.
I keep replaying what happened in my head. The sleazy things they made me do. The disgusting way they talked to me. Most of all, the smug look of satisfaction and arousal on Tom's pink face while his buddies worked me over in the backseat.
I feel degraded and embarrassed, for having put myself in that situation. It never occurred to me that Tom would have any interest in me, sexually. I'm busty. Men have told me I have a beautiful face. But I would charitably be called "thick" and I'm old enough to be his mother. I can't believe this happened.
I spend the weekend in a state of anxiety, unsure of what to do. I consider calling my friend Julia to ask her advice but decide against it. I have no proof. The men bullied me but they didn't physically hurt me. Whatever drug they used would surely have worked it's way through my system by now. Besides, the thought of telling my husband what happened makes me physically ill. Thank God he's away on business.
On Sunday, I go to the gym for the first time in months. I think about the disgusting names Tom called me while I run on the treadmill: hot plumper slut, fat-titted pig, mommy cock whore. I work up quite a sweat. I'm still thinking about it in the shower afterward. I slide a hand down between my legs and almost immediately bring myself off. Hot tears of shame fill my eyes.
*What is wrong with me?*
***
Over the weekend, I decided to call in my resignation and never look back. But Monday morning comes and I wake up at the ordinary time. I perk some coffee, eat some cereal, shower and dress for work as usual. By eight o'clock I'm in the car heading to my office.
My stomach is in knots all morning, waiting for Tom to show up. I imagine that he'll apologize for what he did. That, or we'll have some sort of public confrontation right there in the office. But Tom strolls right by my desk as if nothing happened when he arrives. "Good morning Emily," he says. "How was your weekend?" He passes without even waiting for my answer.
At first, I'm relieved. I've never handled conflict well. But the more I think about it, the angrier I become. How can he pretend that nothing happened?
Tom says hello each morning but he no longer stops by to chat like he used to. A few days pass by like this, then a week. I find myself paying closer attention to my appearance and dress before work. I get my black hair cut into an stylish bob, wear a little more makeup, buy a few new articles of clothing; for example, a satin blouse that shows off my bust.
Tom doesn't seem to notice. I'm enraged. I ignore his greetings and stare daggers at him when I see him in the hall. The worst part is that I still find him attractive, even after what he did. He has sandy brown hair, three-day stubble and a lean, cyclist's build. It's infuriating.
During this time, Philip comes home from his trip. I can't even look at him without feeling contempt. I have no rational reason for being angry at him, but I can't help myself. There's something so meek and effeminate about him now, with his receding hairline and middle aged paunch. What kind of husband lets younger men fuck his wife?
We go out to dinner. Philip keeps telling me how much he likes my new haircut. It's all I can do to keep from rolling my eyes. In bed that night, he makes a pass at me for the first time in years. I tell him I have a headache and turn my back. I'm secretly relieved when he leaves for another business trip.
***
Late one afternoon, I'm digging up some files for my boss Mr. Potts in the records room when Tom walks in behind me. I immediately tense up. This is the first time we've been alone since the happy hour.
"Hey there Em," he says.
I give him an icy glance and turn back to the filing cabinet without a word.
"Is something wrong?" he asks, in his happy-go-lucky voice.
His *fake* voice, I know now.
I snort out loud and ignore him.
"Listen, if I did anything to offend you -"
I can't take it anymore. I whirl around and point a finger at him.
