Maternity Leave by Trish Felice Cohen Page B

offices. David checks the status of all of my cases on the computer; then, instead of telling me to complete an assignment, or better yet, just waiting until I have a chance to do it, given my “load” of fifty files, he says, “I presume you’ve done X.”
    I lied and replied, “Yes, I drafted the complaint.” This response put David in an uncomfortable position because in order to accuse me of lying, he must admit that he was acting like a jackass and asked a question to which he knew the answer. On the other hand, if he says nothing, then I “get away” with lying. It would never occur to David that I’m just fucking with him.
    Not surprisingly, David did not like being backed into a corner. “Can I see it?”
    “Sure,” I said nonchalantly. “I’ll throw it in your inbox as soon as I finish up this motion to compel.”
    David stared at me, clearly trying to come up with a creative way to pursue the point. During his pause, I faced my computer screen and pasted a contemplative expression on my face, a look I imagined I would wear if I ever put my mind to my job. David, who could not come up with a sane way to pursue the matter, gave up and left. As soon as he was out of view, I hurriedly began drafting the complaint, which I would backdate and put in his inbox within the hour. Then, I’d bill two hours for it; on yesterday’s billing of course. It would kill David not to call me out on the lie.
    * * *
     
    On Wednesday, I met up with Paul, the guy from the Dubliner who could quote
Tommy Boy
. We met up to ride around the Island. Paul’s bike was an eight-speed steel Peugeot that was at least ten years old. I had been concerned that he would show up wearing an imitation Tour de France Yellow Jersey riding on a hybrid bike with goofy clip-on aerobars, so I was relieved when he showed up looking like a more seasoned cyclist than I. Paul was very comfortable on the bike and had no problem holding a conversation over the two-hour easy ride. In fact, he kept the pace a little higher than I would have on an easy off-season spin.
    The goal during the off-season is to put in a shitload of base miles every day. Base miles are easy miles, usually at a high cadence and low intensity; a conversational pace using mostly easy gearing. Most professional cyclists ride a minimum of four hours and up to eight hours each day of the off-season. I do this on the weekends, but during the week, because of my awesome job, I can only ride two hours per day given the restricted daylight during this time of year. In addition to these two-hour rides, I run and lift weights during the off-season, but only with my legs. In cycling, the upper body is strictly for breathing and there is no need to bulk up.
    During the ride, Paul and I talked about cycling, work and family. He was not particularly funny in that he didn’t make me laugh, but he seemed to have a decent sense of humor nonetheless. Paul rode with me back to my house, then rode his bike home to his apartment. I thought about inviting him in and ending my increasingly lengthy sexual drought. I had a bike light I could have loaned Paul so that he could ride home in the dark. However, I aborted those plans when Paul leaned in for a kiss, then veered to my cheek. I guess the rumor about wholesome Minnesota boys was true.
    The next day, Paul called me and invited me to go out Friday night for dinner at eight. I planned to do a double-century ride in Gainesville the next morning, so I preferred to slam beers at happy hour, then go to bed at nine, but I figured I had to eat anyway, so I accepted.
    Over dinner, I told Paul about my weekend plans. A “century” is a 100 mile ride. A double-century is back-to-back centuries, usually on a Saturday and Sunday. While it was not uncommon for me to ride 100 miles each Saturday and Sunday during the off-season, it was uncommon for me to pay to do it with a bunch of inexperienced cyclists who had trained all year for the event. However, I