He was in his office on a rather mundane afternoon, sipping a cold coffee, poking at his left over cigar in the ashtray. He was bored. There were no stories. Nothing was happening in Seattle. There was no news to cover, no burning house, no accident, no shooting. The city was as tranquil as the Washington River and reporter Mathew Cantwell was restless. He continued to poke at his cigar when he heard a knock on the door.
“Come in,” he said quietly, as if he were speaking to himself.
A young woman walked in. She was tall, about 5’7, a Coach bag on her shoulders, wearing black boots and a tight skirt that came just above the knees. She was not beautiful, but she had killer eyes that were shockingly captivating. She held him in with her eyes for a brief moment, as if she’d caught him, captured him. Then she began to say something and her voice was rough, husky, masculine. She had a deep Italian accent as if she’d just walked out of the streets of Rome. He wanted to ask so many questions: who was she, was she a reporter, a tourist whom he’d interview, a new boss?
“I am sorry to barge in like this Mr. Cantwell, but I was told you are the hard-news reporter,” she said, looking straight at his bewildered eyes.
“Ah yes, I am. You can call me Mat.”
He suddenly realized that he should probably shake hands with the girl. So he stood, rather awkwardly, extended his arm and they shook hands. He felt something sharp as he pulled his hand away; it was her blue stone ring that he’d felt. The girl introduced herself as Electra.
“Mr. Cant…Mat, I will be your new assistant. You do need an assistant, don’t you?” she asked, still standing.
“Of course,” he said and noticed that the poor girl was still standing, “please sit Electra. You came to a good place. There is always something happening in Seattle!” he exclaimed, except today, he wanted to say. Nothing was happening today.
“Glad to hear that. You know, I love Seattle. It’s perfect. I love the rain,” she said, crossing her bare legs, adjusting her glasses.
She did not have perfect hair. Her hair was thin, with no volume, just straight and thin. Her face was plain, but her lips were full. She wore a bare minimum of makeup, a touch of mascara and a clear gloss. Mat knew what to look for on a woman’s face. His wife was constantly looking at the mirror, complaining about her straight lashes that never curled up, about her lips that were too thin, about her freckles that she covered with powder and foundation.
“I hope you don’t smoke,” Electra said.
“Pardon?”
Mat was not listening. He was looking at her eyes that had been carefully shaped with dark eyeliner. He was looking at how familiar she looked, and yet how different she was from his wife Meredith.
“I see your ashtray. It’s just that I hate smoke, it makes me dizzy.”
“Oh, no worries. I’m quitting,” he said, smiling at her reassuringly. He had no idea that he was quitting but felt that it would be a good day to start.
Electra looked at her wristwatch, uncrossed her legs, folded her arms across her chest and waited.
“When will you start?” Mat asked.
“I was told next Monday.”
“Great! See you then,” he said, watching Electra as she gracefully rose from her chair.
He thought about Meredith. Meredith was beautiful. She had many imperfections. But Mat loved those imperfections. He loved her straight, long lashes, her thin, dry lips. He loved the freckles beneath her eyes. He loved Meredith. They were happy together. They were complete. He completed her lifer. She no longer suffered from loneliness and depression. He cured her insomnia and her constant migraines. She completed his life by bringing him out of his fatigue and lack of enthusiasm for the little things that happened in life. She taught him how to be happy when it rained and everything was a wreck. She taught him the ways in which one could be satisfied with the most imperfect life, with relentless rain and thunder, with uneventful mornings and afternoons, with the sleepless nights of Seattle life.
Mat poked at his cigar again. He pulled out his Marlboro pack from the inside pocket of his coat and threw it in the trash. He then picked up his briefcase and walked out of his office.
There were violent winds and rain as he stepped out. He would still buy his wife flowers and a bottle of red wine. He would have an amazing night with the only woman in his life.