Every Monday and Thursday I drive an hour from my home to work in the garden of my wealthy employer, a handsome adman in his early thirties. For business-purposes I'll just call him Addison. Addison employed me sometime last spring when we met through a professor of one of my classes. I'm 21 and still in school and have a pretty tight schedule, which Addison offered to work around, while promising a pretty penny for my gardening skills.
Since then I've developed somewhat of an infatuation for Addison. Late at night when I'm showering for bed, or lying on the couch downing a glass of cheap red wine, my thoughts often drift to unrealistic fantasies of him having his way with me, hidden in his hydrangeas. My dreams, I know, will never be anything more than dreams, and not just because Addison is happily married. Still, I can't help blushing when I'm pruning his rose bushes and he walks past me, lightly touching my shoulder and thanking me for my "talents" with his garden. He's a very kind man, and very business. Addison rarely wears anything but crisp suits and never has more than a 5 o'clock shadow grazing his firm jaw, though always with a cigarette or, in the evenings, a cigar.