Coward Games

He walks by me daily, his hands wrapped around his morning coffee from the corporate kitchen. Slim hips in form-fitting jeans skim the fabric of my cubicle wall with a whoosh as he slurps the black liquid from a blue Yankees mug. He passes me without looking, like I’m a piece of furniture in the background – unseen, unimportant.

           He ignores me but chases Helga, my blonde, blue-eyed Barbie avatar. Helga reads minds, walks through walls and throws sharp knives with 100% accuracy. 

           I easily inhabit the muscled, long-limbed Helga with her bright smile, killer instincts and take no prisoners’ attitude.  His avatar keeps his real-life purple hair pulled back in a tail, the dragon tattoo that snakes around his left arm, and the red converse sneakers that he always wears in the office. Even on the virtual plane, he could be nothing else but himself.  I’m the coward who hides my flat chest and brown hair behind Barbie boobs and blonde bangs. I’ve never been anything but shy, so it was easy to let my sister talk me into the Helga design. Being Helga in the virtual world frees something in me, something I can’t seem to find when I’m just me, just Jilly.

           Sometimes he leans against the wall of my cubicle, messaging Helga, his eyes never straying from his phone.  I’m amazed he can’t hear how my breathing speeds up when he’s near, or the hammering of my heart. But then he doesn’t see me, why would he hear me?

            Yet, he always seems to be nearby when I am checking my phone at my desk. I don’t want him to know, don’t want to see his disappointment when he discovers who I really am.  I hide in the bathroom or sit on the bench in the parking lot when I message his avatar, playing my coward game.

            I’m sitting on the bench, complimenting his swordplay with smiling emojis.  

“You’re Helga.” He’s leaning over my shoulder, breathing on my skin. 

            I shake my head, flip my phone over and gaze at the ground. “Not me. Go away,” I hiss through the humiliation lodged in my throat.

            Instead, he sits down. “I’ve known for about two months.” He shifts around, puts his arm on the back of the bench, taps a pen against his thigh, whistles. Maybe he’s a coward too.

            I keep my eyes fixed on the mud splatter on my boots. 

            “Helga would look at me.”  His body quiets, waiting.

            I whip my head up. “I’m not Helga,” The heat crawls up my cheeks.

He throws the pen into the air and says, “Catch.”  I instinctively grab the handle, like Helga catches her knives.

            “You are where it counts.” He smiles at me, and I see welcome in his eyes. “Jilly.”

Photo Credit: Edward Howell in Unsplash