“Waiting to see your work wife?” 

James Brouilliard always bristled at the term, even more so now that it was in the mouth of that oily twat Melvin Pilsky. He could feel its pithy perceptiveness haunting his shadow both on and off the clock. A juvenile alliteration flippantly trivializing the tempest of emotions raging inside him… but how else to describe his relationship with Whitney? 

In the confines of Whiffle-Fillman HQ, layers of Sheetrock and fiberglass insulation shielding them from the kaleidoscopic cornucopia of Everything Else, they were like pistons in perfect sync, gliding blissfully in their own cylinders but nonetheless joined at the hip. Delicately balanced, one hotheaded and one sober at all times. It was the only way to stay sane here. With management simultaneously on the staff’s ass and up their own, with an army of mouthbreathing strivers and bootlickers for colleagues who exulted in squishing idealists, sparse delegates from the human race clung to each other for warmth, bivouacking around water coolers or in supply closets and allied cubicles. James and Whitney, the only survivors on the fourth floor, were in a more fraught situation than most, and thus were inseparable from nine to five. 

Bypassing protocol, they proofread each other’s reports, ran figures, plotted strategies. What the hell did Chuck from marketing know about accounts receivable? Who put these people in charge? While the others ate lunch around a long table in the break room, chewing on the latest self-congratulatory drivel out of the research division, James and Whitney took theirs in the sun-drenched top-floor commissary, talking gossip, movies, life stories, and more gossip. From their peers’ inexplicable behavior they derived conspiracies ranging from banal to far-reaching and insidious. How else could Lyle have made senior manager before Jim if not sexual blackmail? Was Casimir the Pole, who played the part of Lyle’s personal bitch with a relentless smile, a victim of human trafficking? 

“We have to get out of here before we go insane,” Whitney would say, and James would agree wholeheartedly, neglecting to mention that he’d turned down better offers at two competing firms largely because he’d miss seeing her. Because in the abuse and gross incompetence of Whiffle-Fillman there was a stability which was becoming increasingly hard to find as the horizons of Everything Else expanded, the peace of mind which comes from being Above It All rather than inside it all, devoured by it all. He didn’t need to be a zen master to attain such a state. All he needed to do it here was, well, a work wife.

Outside, though? What of outside? He went home to a studio in Crystal City, and she to a townhouse on I Street. She still lived with roommates, women didn’t seem to care about that sort of thing. One of them was a man, but he had a girlfriend whom she hated. Jealousy? No — a stupid, intrusive thought — it was obviously genuine.

Anyway, they never saw each other outside. Nine to five was enough. More than enough, really. Most people spend more quality time with their work wives than with their actual wives. Isn’t that sad? Trapped together in desperate circumstances, starved of spousal affection, the artificial pair bonding proceeds and an unholy Frankenstein couple is synthesized. The spell is inevitably broken by promotion, reorganization, resignation, termination. Miserable incantation! The coupling, ultimately contingent, hopelessly ephemeral, dissolves without fuss… 

Unless? If you reframed their relationship, looking at them not as two people for whom the bar was so low that any schmuck with a conscience would seem a godsend, but as two people so naturally inclined towards one another that they could make a paradise of any open floor plan… James, at least, was amenable to this reframing. Labels were pigeonholes. Work wife, friend, lover — who cared? He enjoyed her company, and she seemed to enjoy his. They sought each other’s glances at meetings and in the halls, telepathically mocked superiors with whom they shared an elevator. They’d reached a certain height of acceptable platonic rapport, but they were playing in a sandbox. Work-related topics were surely in-bounds, Anything Else was stochastic at best. 

The question of how to breach the walls kept James up at night, to the point that even Whitney noticed his performance was slipping. He remembered how she’d acted around him when he’d first started on the fourth floor: diffident, closed-off, unreadable. It wasn’t just a worksona, he’d learned — that was really her. She loathed confrontation, decision-making, volatility. All outcomes had to be certain, all wheels greased properly and prematurely. It was why she excelled at her job but never got the deserved promotions. Why should she debase herself if some other buffoon wanted it more? But it was also, he’d ascertained, why she still shared her home with three roommates and not a leisure husband. The only men in DC willing to put their egos on the line for her were boorish lumps she despised, while the self-conscious ones writhed and withered in the emotional cartwheels and histrionics de moda until they disappeared entirely. 

If only there were a way to bust down the sandbox walls… She entered the break room and went straight for the refrigerator, brushing past Melvin with a huff. “Two days,” she said to James bleakly. “They want the report in two days.”

James sipped at his coffee. “As if you don’t have enough on your plate already.”

“And that’s the worst part — no acknowledgment for picking up the slack, no apologies for the late notice. It’s like I’m a machine that just works for them when they need it to.” She grabbed a plastic-wrapped Italian sub from the fridge and brought it to the table, furiously tugging at its sheath. A vertical-striped button-down emphasized her modest frame, and with a navy blue pleated skirt and her hair done up in a bun she was all business. 

“Maybe you ought to pull a late night sometime,” Melvin mused with his droning voice as he slithered out of the room. “It’s the best time to get work done. They leave the coffee out till ten.”

“God, I can’t stand him. I hate it here,” said Whitney. “Do you know what he does when he stays late? He plays RuneScape the whole time when the bosses aren’t looking. But hey, as far as they’re concerned, he’s knocking it out of the park! Sorry I want something resembling a life.”

“The only way out is out. You know I’m jumping ship the minute I get the chance.”

“Please don’t,” she pouted. “I’d go insane. I’d have to start drinking after work.”

“The Astorius on K Street is the place. Strongest Manhattan this side of the Potomac. I’m good friends with the bartender.”

“Please,” Whitney laughed. “I’m lucky to make it through a glass of chardonnay in bed before I pass out.” 

James’s eye twitched. Couldn’t make it through the slightest suggestion of an extracurricular rendezvous without being shut down. It couldn’t be that she didn’t care for him — she texted him constantly, usually about work, but sometimes about other things. Puppy pictures, funny TikToks. She was big into TikTok, but who wasn’t these days? No, she certainly wanted to talk to him, how was it that she never took his hints they ought to talk in a place not quite so fluorescently lit? In a sunny park, a moody bar, an afternoon ramble through Federalist Georgetown…  

But asking her outright was right out of the question. Idealism be damned, workplace sexual politics had a set of unwritten rules which all but forbid the man to make the move. There was too much history, too many horror stories. He understood — don’t shit where you eat. But it had to be sexual: all his ideas were things that could be construed as dates. What would a platonic heterosexual pair of officemates even do outside work? Play tennis? Love-love — no, it wouldn’t do. They didn’t need contrived activities to get to know each other. They’d been through the fires of bureaucratic hell together more times than they could count. She either wanted him or she didn’t. But he couldn’t press the issue any further without raising a red flag — the burden of confession was on her. 

After work he found himself in the Astorius alone. Or, rather, not alone, but with his friend Reggie, the bartender. Reggie was one of those FDA egghead dropouts who’d long ago discovered the best medicine for any ailment is a bespoke cocktail. He called himself a mixologist and used words like “disruptive” and “mindbending” to describe his craft. His signature Old Fashioned contained a drop of truffle oil, which James thought gauche but which Reggie considered the mixological analogue of Coleman’s free jazz. 

After a few too many Coleman Supremes, James spit out what was troubling him. “Whitney? The one that’s always sending you shit? Just make a move, brother,” said Reggie. 

“It’s not that simple,” moaned James. “If I’m reading her wrong… there could be consequences.”

“Fuck you mean? Just be normal.”

“She’s the only one keeping me sane at work. I couldn’t show my face around her. I’d have to get a new job, throw everything away. Why’s it gotta be me that makes the move? It’d be so much safer and easier if she did it.” 

“That’s how the world works, man. Quit being a pussy.”

“It’s eating me alive! How am I supposed to focus at work when all I can think about is her?”

“There’s plenty of fish out there who don’t have a stake in your livelihood. Maybe you should get out more.”

“Like here?” James gestured at the empty bar.

Reggie rolled his eyes. “Listen, man, you’re pretty sure she fucks with you?” 

“Reasonably. She’s just shy. She doesn’t take control like that.” 

“Well, check this out.” He disappeared to the back office and returned with a vial of clear liquid. “You see this?” he said, tapping at it. “Liquid courage.”

James held out his full glass. “Pour it in. I’ll buy her a ring.”

“No, you idiot, not for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, some people, they need a little help to act on what they really want. And some people need a lot of help. Liquor can only go so far, so I’ve been working on this bad boy right here. Think of it like an all-powerful aphrodisiac. With a bit of brain rewiring on the side. No hangover necessary. Just a permanent shot of confidence.” He rolled the vial toward James. “Introduce her to herself.”

“I’m not following…”

“Mix it in her coffee or something. Flavorless. Not in a weird way. Tell her it’s a nootropic or something. It is, more or less. It’s all about stimulus and response. It’ll amplify whatever feelings she has for you to the point that she’s not gonna be able to resist.”

“And if she doesn’t have feelings for me?”

“No harm, no foul.”

James poked at the vial as though it would bite him. “Isn’t that a bit… immoral?” 

“God, you unrepentant idiot. Is taking your date to Dollar Oyster Night immoral? Is it immoral to introduce your college friend to the wonders of MDMA and then act surprised she wants to fuck you after? Life is an infinite sequence of chemical processes. Some we choose, some we don’t. Some work how we expect, some don’t. I’ll be blunt with you — this is heavy stuff. It’s Love Potion #9. How’s that different from any other love? It’s just chemicals. Not like she’s in control of it either way. Immoral? Maybe. But you said you’re sure. She’s only got eyes for you. She wants it just as bad as you do. For Christ’s sake, don’t the ends justify the means?”

James killed the rest of his truffle-infused Old Fashioned and grimaced. “Right, right, whatever. I’ll think about it.” He put the vial in his coat pocket.

*

The next day at work was so hectic James barely had time to think. He raced around delivering files to different managers, double- and triple-checking figures with his colleagues, furiously stabbing at spreadsheets to create beautiful and expressive visualizations which with any luck would trickle up to C-suite. In the slimy brown haze of hangover, his moral vision returned. Slip her a mickey? Was Reggie insane? The only bright parts of his day came when he passed Whitney in the halls and they exchanged knowing smirks or eye-rolls. Could he really take what he was so lucky to have — a steadfast friend in this den of debauchery — and treat her like little more than an object to be obtained through deceit? 

“We should have a little party in the break room when these two days are over,” she said as she caught him in his office, out of breath. “I’ll buy us a cake and you get booze. No work getting done that day.” 

“Good luck getting that approved. Five levels of HR nightmare. Besides, who’d come? Melvin? Might as well hit a bar or something. Go bowling.”

“Oh, please. We’ve earned it. What are they gonna do, fire us? We collectively do the work of, like, ten people. Ugh, I’ve gotta run. But seriously, Thursday morning, bring booze.”

James couldn’t take it anymore. What would it take to get this show on the road? What was a party for two people if not a date? And if it was a date, why the hell did it have to be in the break room? But she would never make the suggestion herself, and she was too reserved to even interpret his suggestions as suggestions. It couldn’t go on any longer. He had to know the truth.

Thursday rolled around. Their work was finished, as always, on time and at no small expense to their well-being. Whitney whirled in at nine sharp with a little cake adorned with pastel frosting flowers. James came bearing a bottle of cabernet. With his free hand, he fished in his pocket and fiddled with the little vial of dreams. It was inconceivable that he should give it to her without her consent. And yet, how to explain why she should down a substance which he himself wouldn’t down for all the money in the world? James didn’t trust Reggie one bit. He had a bartender’s heart, but a degree in neuroscience from Northwestern and a résumé stuffed with the names of shady biotech labs which even the Whiffle-Fillman brass knew little about. Whatever he’d cooked up here was potent. To test it on someone who placed her utter trust in him… it was unthinkable! 

Still, he kept remembering Reggie’s words: no harm, no foul. It wasn’t like the shot would force her to fall in love with him. It was just a confidence booster. It might as well have been extra alcohol — straight vodka, even. In fact, he decided this was the perfect way to present it to her. At lunch he stole out to the liquor store and bought a few airplane bottles of Smirnoff. He dumped out half of one’s contents and replaced it with what was in the vial. Back at the office, Whitney was waiting in the break room. 

“Please tell me you brought wine. I’m so uptight I’m ready to explode!”

James procured the bottle from the cabinet.

“Red!” Whitney cried in dismay. “You know I like white!”

“Is this white enough for you?” James said, brandishing the vodka bottles from his pockets. 

Whitney leapt up and ran over to him, shoving him slightly. His whole body went weak at her touch. “You devil. You are going to get us fired.” James hated himself for what he was about to do, but seeing the way she was now, with her black hair down framing her shining beautiful face, her warm soft body so close to him… he felt powerless to resist the temptation of what he might effect. 

He made sure to give her the correct bottle: right pocket for good, left for evil. Just like in Scripture. She didn’t even notice it was open. She poured it into a coffee mug, and he filled the rest of the volume with wine. Then he did the same in his own mug and toasted with her, his teeth gnashing, stomach turning. “To the concern’s continued success,” she joked. 

While James cut the cake, she sipped at her extra-stiff cab. “Not bad. I’d have thought a whole nip would knock me down.” 

James tried to think of a witty retort, but was coming up blank. His hand was shaking with the knife. What had he done? “No harm, no foul…” he thought. But how long would it take? 

No discernible change came over Whitney during their little powwow. After all, even for her petite weight, a cup of wine and 25 mL of vodka wouldn’t do much. A few coworkers and bosses poked their heads in and derided them for their excess. “No one told me it was Friday!” said Ed Reed, the revenue manager. “You two better be ready for the round table tomorrow — there’ll be an SVP or two in attendance.” 

“Go to hell!” Whitney whispered nervously when he was out of earshot.

Of course Melvin rolled through as well and made some snide comment about their slacking off. “Like we’re gonna take advice from the dungeon crawler,” Whitney again laughed. “Who does he think he is?”

“Imagine priding yourself on creating a toxic work environment,” scoffed James. “What a sad, sad life.”

“Tell me about it!”

James didn’t have much hope for the wonder drug to take effect in such a short time, but he decided to put the feelers out there anyway. “You know, it was such a nice day when I went out earlier. What do you say we split early and hit the happy hour over at the Statesman?” He couldn’t believe his sudden forwardness. Knowing that Whitney had drunk the potion, it was like he himself had taken it — he suddenly felt utterly confident, uninhibited. 

Evidently, Whitney was not getting the same effects. She scrunched up her face and said, “Ugh, I would, but I have to go to the DMV tonight.”

“The DMV? I thought you didn’t drive.”

“I don’t, but you never know if I might have to. I’ve gotta keep my license up to date!” 

A decent excuse, but one which she’d have swiftly forsaken had she been as inflamed with passion as the concoction was supposed to make her. Fine, fine, no rush. James had waited so long, he couldn’t let his impatience get the better of him now that he was so close. He spent an anxious afternoon and evening at home, pacing around his apartment and often forgetting what he was doing. He managed to keep his direct thoughts off what he’d done to his poor unaware colleague while he was up and about, but when he went to bed it was a different story. 

In the past, he’d managed to keep any latent sexual ideation involving Whitney confined deep in his subconscious. After all, he had to see her every day in a professional environment, an environment on which his comfortable lifestyle heavily depended. It would be unthinkable to jeopardize that lifestyle over some lascivious fantasy. Furthermore, it would debase the subjectivity of someone he genuinely saw as a friend, something he would have hated himself for doing — until now, at least. Now, that was all out the window. The floodgates were open. Fantasies poured in.

Shy, coy, she corners him in the break room, hair a mess, blushing tremendously. “There’s something I’ve wanted to tell you… I just didn’t know how to say it… till now…” Before he can react, she’s pinned him, kissing him wildly, pressing herself roughly against his crotch. Powerless to resist, he wraps an arm around her slight waist and pulls her in tighter, cradling first her shoulder then her petite breast in his free hand… She’s already undoing the buttons of her superfluous shirt, wriggling out of the straps of her bralette… Who cares if they’re doing it in the office? They’re in love and always have been, it’s just taken till now to admit it… 

James’s heart was racing, he found himself gasping for air. Could this really be his life in a matter of hours? It was insane, beyond comprehension, and yet if the elixir really worked as Reggie said, it wasn’t entirely implausible… Needless to say, he hardly slept that night. 

He rolled into work late the next day, unshaven, with bags under his eyes. No point in trying to impress Whitney now. If she’d wanted him before, she’d surely want him desperately now. “Late,” Melvin hissed at him as he stumbled into the conference room for the morning strategy meeting. James huffed and searched the room for Whitney. She was standing at the far end of the table, and gave him an enthusiastic wave when their eyes met. Was there anything different in the way she now regarded him? A fervor in her gaze, a suggestive wiggle of the hips? Nothing that James could discern. But the sterile and crowded meeting space was hardly conducive to an outburst of torrid passion. He would have to wait, to courageously endure a little longer. 

The meeting proceeded in the typical fashion. Redundant updates were given and vague action items assigned. Whitney spoke with her usual muted and agreeable tone, James mumbled his updates grimily. The managers’ spiels seemed to go on and on. Then it was Melvin’s turn to present some inane project he was working on. His nasally monotone voice penetrated James’s ears like a drill bit, to the point that all content was ignored and the only message comprehended was pain. James was only roused to a state of attention when Melvin asked the room if he could get another set of eyes on one of his reports, and a familiar voice sounded from across the room. It couldn’t be — Whitney? Volunteering? To help Melvin? And was that a note in her voice which James had never heard before? Confident… mischievous… provocative? With that invocation of “I’ll do it,” she may as well have been singing, “Happy birthday, Mr. President.” There had to be a misunderstanding.

Melvin tried to hide a snicker of derision, then said, “Sure, come find me after.” But when the meeting was over, James furiously cut through the crowd to intercept Whitney before she could go anywhere else. His head was pounding and he felt sick to his stomach. He suddenly recalled his fantasies from the previous night and felt a profound sense of shame. Then, there she was in front of him.

“Hopping on Melvin’s project?” he said in a low conspiratorial voice. “Are you trying to sabotage him?”

Whitney gave him a strange smile. “No,” she said, “I just thought I’d help out.” 

There was a tension in her voice which made James’s blood run cold. “Really,” he said, trying to keep calm, “you want to help the guy who’d throw you out on the street for a ten dollar raise? Did he blackmail you or something?”

Whitney giggled and shrugged. “No, nothing like that. It’s just…”

“Just what?” Whitney clasped her hands and was swaying coquettishly. James’s eyes were like saucer plates. He’d never seen her like this.

“Well, this is going to sound crazy, but… I think I kind of… like him?”

It seemed to James like the air had been sucked out of the room. All this time he’d waited hoping, for this? “You like him? As in, feel pity for him, right?”

Whitney rolled her eyes. “No, silly. Like, it’s weird, I never really realized it till now, but… I want to be with him.”

*

James slammed his head against the Astorius bar, startling a couple at the far end. “Melvin,” he moaned venomously, “your drink made her fall in love with Melvin.”

“Hey, hey, woah woah,” said Reggie. “That drink didn’t make her fall in love with anyone. If she’s into him now, she was inclined that way all along. Just couldn’t admit it to herself.”

“But she hated him. And not in a teasing way, either. I mean, he’s the most detestable person in the universe, probably. What on Earth could have compelled her…”

Reggie shrugged. “Women are weird, brother. So are we. There’s no accounting for taste.” He slid a lotus root Negroni toward his friend. “Drink up and cry it out. You’ll move on. Well, you might have to get a new job.”

James cackled contemptuously. “A new job? Hell, no. I’ve got to see how this plays out.”

“It’s not gonna play out well for you, that’s for sure. She’s gonna chase him hard. She’ll pull out every trick in the book. He won’t be able to resist. And you’re gonna watch your work wife fall in love with your work enemy right in front of your eyes.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, my friend,” said James triumphantly. “You don’t know Melvin. I don’t think the concepts of human love and sexuality have crossed his mind once in his life. He might be gay, I don’t know, but what I’m absolutely sure of is that unless she’s a RuneScape quest he’s not gonna want a single thing to do with her.”

Reggie looked stunned. “You’re serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious! This guy is so far up his own ass he can see his teeth! I’d like to see Whitney even try to get some response out of him.”

Reggie sucked in his breath, his expression suddenly somber. “If what you’re saying is true, I don’t think you want to stick around for that, brother. Because that would not be good. That would really not be good.”