The Right Programming Language - Sex Stories

The Right Programming Language

... shocked. He seems genuinely frustrated.

"What?" I say, momentarily stupefied.

"You–ever since we worked out the dialog box issue, you've barely talked to anyone, and you haven't said two words to me. I don't like it. I want to talk code with you, but you won't even look at me. Did I do something?"

"You–you want to talk code with me?"

"Uh yeah, duh. You're the best on the team."

"What?” I am flabbergasted. “I thought you hate me–you pick on my code and never give me any praise like you give everyone else."

"Obviously, when I give praise like that, it's fake because I'm trying to get them to get their shit together. You don't need that because you already know what you're doing, so I'm able to be honest with you. Or at least, I thought I was. I don't hate you–what–why would you think that? Obviously I–or at least I thought it was obvious that I–but I can't…." He trails off.

"Can't what, Mark?" I hang onto his words.

"I've tried to be really careful. I don't want to be inappropriate in the workplace."

"What…" I manage with astonishment.

"Yeah, I don't want to get hit with a sexual harassment charge, right? But, like, I thought it was obvious, anyway."

"Are you saying–are you saying you feel the opposite of hating me?"

He looks at me with a helpless expression, his hands open and shrugging slightly.

I sag against the door, my thoughts whirling.

"Mark, I…I don't know how to say this, and I guess following your lead I shouldn't be saying ...

... this at work, but the reason I stopped talking to you was because–" I swallow, "well, it was because I um, well, I had a dream…about–well about you. And me. And I couldn't look at you without…anyway."

"Are you saying you had a dream that…you hadthat kind of dream?"

I nod slowly.

We both stand there, microexpressions flitting across our faces as we work through our own thoughts.

"Jane, do you think–do you think we could take a walk after work, before you go home?"

I nod again.

"Okay. Okay, cool. Yeah. So I'll come meet you at your desk, at five?”

"Okay." I feel the word whoosh quietly from my mouth.

He gestures for me to exit the room first, and we walk silently back to our desks.

I can't see him from my desk, but I can see the clock on the wall. 3 PM, 4 PM…. The minute hand is obnoxiously slow. At a quarter to, I give up trying to concentrate. I start committing and pushing my branch, powering down my computer, and packing my bag. I'm just closing the zipper when Mark shows up around the corner. I glance at the clock–it's only 4:50.

"Oh good," he says. "I just couldn't wait any longer. You–ah–you ready to go?"

"Um yeah, I think so," I answer nervously.

I grab my bag and we wordlessly take the elevator down and exit the building. We walk one block, two blocks, to a small park nearby. Neither discussing where we are going, we both seem to know where we are headed: a small bench completely hidden by some trees and out of view of the rest of the ...