The Festival

"You need me," I said out loud.

"I am here, am I not," Griffin answered without answering. Even his compliments were wrapped in a superior tone. Sandra suppressed a giggle. Griffin's eyes flared. I was still smiling.

"My employee?" I asked.

"For the day," Griffin clarified.

"What does that mean?" I really wished I could get rid of my growing smile. It was glued in place. Griffin needed me. Corcoran needed me. I had value. I liked having my value clearly defined by others. I liked that it was documented.

"I work for you," Griffin said. He dropped the superior tone, "whatever you need done. It will allow you to unwind in a sensible way." It was all math to him. He was willing to lower himself for a day to keep his numbers up. He was allowing me a modicum of revenge. It was totally unnecessary. I wanted it more than the raise.

"The yard needs raking," I said. I almost formed it as a doubtful question. I changed mid-sentence and turned it into a statement.

"Where would I find a rake?" Griffin queried. My heart fluttered. I liked being the boss.

"In the garage," I said, then added, "where did you expect it to be?" I used the Griffin you-must-be-an-idiot tone. I wasn't confident I had it down, but it was fun to say. Griffin didn't bat an eye.

"Of course," Griffin replied, looking around the house, "which way?" I pointed to the door off the kitchen. He headed off to rake my yard.

"Okay," Sandra said incredulously, once Griffin was in the garage, "that was bizarre." I ran to the window and watched as he started to rake the leaves. There was no hesitation in his movements, no sign he resented it. "You do know how weird this is?"

"With him, I think it's more normal than you know," I said, smiling. Griffin was putting effort into his swipes with the rake. He wouldn't even allow a single leaf to escape his gathering. Nothing out of place. It was his way - the anal, OCD way.

"You're enjoying this," Sandra observed.

"Immensely," I agreed.

"You like him," Sandra continued.

"Today I do," I admitted. It would take Griffin a while to gather all the leaves. I remembered my state of dress and probable smell. "I have to take a shower. Wait for me?"

"Sure, that's what bouquets do," Sandra smiled. I hugged her and ran to the shower. Everyone needs a friend who doesn't judge her insanity.

Griffin had the leaves in a single pile by the time I cleaned myself up. He'd raked all the leaves, even the ones that had fallen while he had been raking. He had even pulled them out of the landscaping. At least he expected the same perfection out of himself as he did out of me.

"There are some recycle bags on the second shelf," I said, pointing to the garage. Griffin nodded and headed off after them. I sat on the front stoop and watched. I couldn't believe what was happening. Sandra joined me, handing me a cup of coffee. It was a cool morning, but not uncomfortable. We watched as Griffin returned and started filling the bags.

"You don't think this is weird?" Sandra asked, warming her hands around her coffee cup.

"Yes, wonderfully weird," I said, mesmerized by the man cleaning my yard. For some reason, I wanted to watch. Not helping like I should, but sitting idling watching Griffin work. He never even looked up at me as he filled three bags full of leaves. All the months of him yelling at me seemed to fade into a distant memory.

"What about Monday," Sandra asked, "think he'll make you pay for this?" I could have sworn I saw a quick smirk on Griffin's face. He might have overheard.

"Maybe," I responded quietly, looking around the yard, "but right now there are things that need to be done." I stood up and Griffin folded over the top of the last bag. "Those go on the left side of the drive. Don't block the driveway." It was a command. A wonderful, tasty, lovely, I-am-in-charge command. He picked up the first bag and headed toward the end of the driveway. My smile returned of its own accord.

"Bitchy, bitchy, bitchy," Sandra whispered with a sly smile. I had to bite my lip to stop from laughing.

"A little more to the left," I called to Griffin. The bag was in a fine spot, but that red marker of his was eating at me. A little correcting was in order. He picked up the bag and moved it another foot to the left. "Too far," I corrected again. Sandra hit my arm. I couldn't help it, the whole situation was just too delicious. He moved the bag back about halfway, and I nodded to let him know it was perfect.

"You're as weird as he is," Sandra smiled, "I can't believe he is just doing it."

"It's my day," I said proudly. I watched as Griffin moved the other two bags to the curb. I almost had him move them again, but thought that would be drifting too far to the dark side. Griffin took a good look at the three bags, twisted one a little and pushed another back about an inch. Definitely anal. He moved to the center of the yard, held out his hands as if I was going to nail him to a cross.

"Next," Griffin said, a smile on his face. He was enjoying himself. I stared at that smile, a thing I didn't think existed a day ago.

"The hedges need trimming," I said softly. Why was he smiling?

"Is the trimmer in the garage?"

"Yes, the giant scissor thing," I replied, making motions with my fists like I was using it. He moved off to retrieve the trimmer. Sandra stifled a laugh. "What?"

"He likes you as boss," Sandra whispered. I felt a warmth rush to my face. "He really likes it."

"Stop it," I said.

"This is like sex to you two wackos," Sandra joked, "right now you're on top." I hit her arm. She laughed.

"He's precise," I responded, "this is nothing but a means to an end for him. He likes his numbers." I smiled at Sandra. "I'm a really good assistant." I loved hearing it out of my mouth. Mr. OCD had quantified it. He put it in writing. Now he was going to trim my bushes. Heat ran through me. Yes, it was a little like sex.

Griffin appeared from the garage with the hand trimmer. He moved to the bushes on the far side of the driveway, the line that marked the property line. He looked up and down the row, knelt a couple of times then turned back to me.

"Just want it cleaned up or shaped?" Griffin asked.

"Oh," I sighed, deep in my thoughts, "shaped would be wonderful."

"Foreplay," Sandra whispered with a little smirk, pulling me off my cloud. Griffin didn't seem to notice. His attention was riveted to the bushes as he went to work. I could almost see his mind working as the trimmer tilted this way and that, cutting precisely with aggressive intent. Each time the blades came together, the silvery sound of metal sliding against metal caressed my ears. It was an intoxicating sound, the way it almost echoed off the house itself, each cut severed leaf and branch for me. At my command. Yes, foreplay.

"Don't," Sandra whispered. Her face was cloaked in concern. "It would be worse than the float." I forgot that she could see through me. I gave her my innocent smile, the one that contained humor and confusion.

"You're imagining things," I said.

"You can't sleep with your boss," Sandra said seriously.

"No intention," I laughed in an attempt to relieve her worry. Power surged through me at the thought. If I had Timothy under me, sleep would be that last thing on my mind. Visions of him disrobing at my word made me close my eyes. I let them flutter away. No man would allow that much control, certainly not Griffin. Not Mr. Red Pen. I looked at him working feverishly on my hedges, his arms working back and forth, set on pleasing me. My breath caught in my throat.

"I mean it," Sandra continued. I just smiled.

It took the rest of the morning for Griffin to finish the bushes. He cleaned up the trimmings, adding another recycle bag at the curb. Sandra had gone inside to clean herself up. I stayed and watched. Griffin didn't seem to notice my vigilance, his intention upon shaping my bushes into uniform fence-like structures took all his attention. A year of fearing his appearance at my desk, and now I couldn't seem to break away.

"Lunch," I called out when Griffin was returning from the curb. He picked up the garden tools and nodded. I went inside and practically ran to the counter. I sat on the stool at the end of the counter. It allowed me the best view. Sandra was giving me a questioning look, but her main attention was on her phone. She had been on a call when I came in. I smiled and mouthed 'lunch' to her. She rolled her eyes and submerged herself back into her phone. It sounded like a work call.

Griffin came in with a neutral expression, pulled the sleeves of his sweater up his forearms, away from his hands, and went to the sink to wash up.

"You'll ruin the sleeves that way," I commented, knowing that the wool would stretch and may not return to its normal diameter. Griffin looked at me with half a smile, reached down to his waist and pulled his sweater up and off his body. He folded it neatly and laid it off to the side. An old faded red Ohio State t-shirt now covered his torso. I had never seen anything that wasn't crisp and new on him. Everything was different today.

"Is that better, Ms. Paddington?" Griffin asked. His smile was back again, fighting with mine. He started to wash his hands.

"Yes," I said and risked much by adding, "Timothy." Not even a shimmer of disapproval. My lungs were barely working. He had just given me more power.

"What would you like me to prepare?" Timothy asked, looking around the kitchen. It was the most wonderful question. He was truly mine today. Sandra ended her call and was heading toward us. Three's a crowd, came to mind.

"Sandwiches would be nice," I said, half comment, half command. "There's bread in the box over there." I pointed at my lovely wooden bread box with the large box letters that said 'Bread.' I was about to say there was sandwich meat in the fridge, but I was hit with a better idea. "There's a can of tuna fish in the cupboard above your head; mayo and pickles in the fridge." I saw a tiny bit of confusion on his face. "I even think I have a hard boiled egg in there as well." I watched as he deftly collected all the items and put them on the counter. He stared for a moment then looked up at me.

"I'm at a loss," Timothy admitted. I had him.

"I can help you with that," Sandra said, and started to move toward the other side of the counter. I grabbed her wrist and held her back. Three was definitely a crowd.

"Timothy can handle it," I said, pulling Sandra toward a stool next to mine. She gave me her are-you-insane look. "The mixing bowl is in the cupboard above the stove," I told Timothy. He brought down the bright orange plastic bowl. "Cutting board," I added, pointing to the other counter. He brought it over. "Knife and can opener are in that drawer." He added the implements. Sandra looked like she had bitten into a lemon. "There's a mixing spoon in the other drawer."

"Two cans of tuna in the bowl," I instructed as if I was talking with a young child. Timothy smiled, took both cans, unopened, and put them into the bowl. Smart ass. "Open the cans, idiot." I was unable to keep the humor out of my voice. Sandra nudged me with her elbow. She didn't understand. Damn crowds.

Timothy opened the cans and dumped the contents into the bowls. The smell of fish filled the kitchen and wafted toward the rest of the house. "You have to drain it first," I chastised. This was way too much fun. Using the mixing spoon as a dam, Timothy drained the tuna into the sink.

"What are you doing?" Sandra whispered. I could tell Timothy overheard, something in the way his eyes moved.

"Teaching Timothy how to make tuna salad," I told her. 'Foreplay,' I told myself. I knew that wasn't what she was asking. She was wondering why I was subtly torturing my boss. Because he was allowing me. I felt like I was topless on a float daring the world to object. Because it felt so damn good.

"I have to talk to you," Sandra said and moved toward the bedroom, beckoning me to follow.

"Add a couple of dollops of mayonnaise," I told Timothy, "mix it up until it's spreadable." I made useless stirring motions with my hands. "Be right back." He nodded as he opened the mayo.

"What the fuck?" Sandra said quietly when I entered the bedroom.

"What?" I feigned ignorance. It would have taken a year to explain it to her. I couldn't even explain it to myself. I held power willingly given by one of the most powerful people I knew. It was everything I ever wanted, even though I had no idea I had ever wanted it. A drug. A very addictive drug.

"You two are nuts," Sandra commented. I smiled and nodded. "This will end badly," she added.

"Maybe," I said, my mind traveling past the million possibilities, "maybe not." I shrugged my shoulders.

"I have to leave soon," Sandra said. My heart leaped. Two's company. "I have to go to work for a few hours. A meeting was rescheduled from Wednesday to Monday and we aren't ready. I can come back tonight," Sandra offered.

"I'll call you," I said, not wanting to come out and just say 'no' to my best friend.

"You're insane, but I love you." Sandra smiled.

"Me too," I said hugging her. Sandra sighed and we headed out to the kitchen.

"It was nice the meet you, Timothy," Sandra said sweetly, "I have to hit the grindstone for a few hours." Timothy shocked me, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel and coming around the kitchen counter to shake her hand.

"The bouquet was lovely, Sandra," Timothy said nicely in parting. I could swear Sandra blushed. Unwarranted jealousy, green and awful, gushed through me. I tried beat it off. I had no right. I wanted the right. Sandra smiled to me and headed out with a friendly wave.

"The eyes were lovelier," Timothy said with a smirk, once the door was closed. My blood pressure returned to normal. I turned to thank him, but he had already headed back to the kitchen. "What's the next step?" he queried, tilting the bowl so I could see the spreadable tuna. My eyes were lovely. I had lovely eyes. He just complimented my eyes, well a painting of my eyes. My breast eyes. Are my breasts lovely too?

"Ms. Paddington?" Timothy asked, trying to get my attention.

"Oh," I said, snapping out of it. I quickly returned to my seat. "Dice the egg and add it to the tuna." About a second later, "Take the shell off first," I corrected and Timothy ceased sawing at the egg with the knife. He was playing with me. Where did his humor come from?

I had Timothy add some chopped pickles to the mix and declared it done. I had to yell at him when he attempted to spread it on non-toasted bread. What kind of moron has tuna salad on non-toasted bread? He wouldn't make that mistake again. It was a very therapeutic lesson. Stress relief by revenge.

"What would you like to drink?" Timothy asked as he cut my toasted tuna sandwich in half.

"Ice water," I answered, "glasses are over there." I pointed at the cupboard. Timothy filled two glasses with ice and water. He slid my sandwich to me and placed an ice water next it. I sat there for a moment, just staring at him like he was stupid.

"Napkin?" I asked, when his ignorance was fully recognized. He hid his smile. This time I made him search the kitchen to find the napkins. It took three drawers before he struck gold. He folded the napkin in half and placed it gently next to my plate. He fixed his own sandwich as I began on mine. He made a slight face when he took his first bite.

"You like tuna fish?" I asked as Timothy took his second bite of his sandwich.

"I hate it." I smiled at his words. More power.

"Why are you eating it?" I asked.

"It's the best damn sandwich I've ever had, Ms. Paddington," Timothy said. He was looking through me as he said it, sucking power from me. I let a little go.

"It is damn good, Timothy," I flirted back. I just couldn't be as cold as Griffin. I wield my power differently. A compliment now and again wouldn't weaken me much.

When Timothy finished the dishes, I had him clean the garage. It was a mess. I had him bring out a chair for me so I could watch more comfortably. He never showed any signs of disliking my orders. I did not tire of giving them. He was beautiful to watch. He worked in well-defined patterns, completing one sub-task completely before starting the next. Nothing was done twice and everything was done to perfection, or what represented perfection in an old one-car garage. He even hosed down the concrete pad to remove the stubborn dust. My garage was probably cleaner than my bathroom.

We retired to the great room. The room wasn't really that great. It needed a coat a paint. Another day. I had Timothy open a bottle of wine. Not that I really wished to drink any. I just wanted him to serve me some. He did so in his normal impeccable manner. He sat on the other side of the couch, back in his faded Ohio State t-shirt. I pushed. I really wanted to push. I had never had a day like today. I wanted more.

"Shoes," I said, lifting my feet up on his lap. His eyes moved down my feet, along my legs, up my torso and into my eyes. He smiled as he began to untie my pink tennies. I felt every movement of his hands, each finger as it tugged at the laces. He cupped the back of my ankle as he tenderly removed the shoe from my left foot. Heavenly. He repeated the process on my right foot. So wonderful. "Socks," I pushed. Somehow, he made it tickle horribly as he slowly removed my socks, the white ones with the pink stripes across the top. I struggled to look firm, unperturbed by his manipulations. He placed the carefully folded socks on top of my shoes. I am sure the left sock was with the left shoe. It was his way.

I was about to demand a massage. Lousy slave, he acted without orders. I melted into the couch as he worked the pads of my feet, firmly with an unexpected tenderness. His fingers finding the little grooves between my toes, not forcing, just inching gently along. He found a spot just below my ankle, one I didn't know was there. I lost all my power - a small moan escaped. Oh, God, he heard. His fingers concentrated on the spot as my legs turned to jelly. "Don't stop," I demanded, regaining some strength, more drug. Damn his lovely fingers.

Suddenly, Timothy stopped. He lowered my feet to the floor, his smile very sly. "It's five o'clock," he said. I looked at the clock - closing time. My day was over. Griffin stood. I wanted Timothy back. He picked up and donned his sweater - he was planning on leaving. I was speechless. He moved deftly to the door, a typical Griffin silent goodbye.

"Timothy!" I ordered. He froze. Sweet wonderful power surged. I've had to put in overtime before. Why not him? I moved in front of him. Damn his height - I was weakened by it. "Knell," I said quietly, a pleading command. My heart surged when he dropped to one knee, looking up at me. I carefully filled my hand with the hair on the back of his head and tightened slightly. His eyes changed to wonder, a lost boy's eyes.

"I want next weekend," I demanded, my lips so close to his. He shuddered. I felt it. I saw it. I was everything at that moment. I wanted to be everything.

"Yes," Timothy replied. I molested his lips with mine. I took, he received. Heat surged through me. My insides tingled with him. I would have him, in time. I released him and took a step back. He staggered for a moment, flushed with the same heat I felt. It was rum and margarita mixed with fire.

"I will see you Monday, Mr. Griffin," I said with a stuttered confidence. Griffin stood.

"Don't be late." Timothy was gone. I missed him already. It would be a long week.

I woke early, my clothes pressed, color palette adhered to, and not a hair out of place. Mr. Griffin demanded perfection, and I intended to give it to him. Monday through Friday were his days. Walking in to EL Corcoran Brokerage on Monday was exhilarating. Eyes followed me, shocked to see the lady who had been escorted out of the building on Friday. As I neared my desk, the surprise grew. These were the people who had heard my verbal tirade on Friday. I barely looked at them. I had work to do.