You hear him
before you see him. His is the voice that rises above the din, greeting, reverberating.
Your mouth crooks into a twisted half-moon, a sliver of something. Your eyes
draw toward the heavens; your eyebrows tent.
He sounds like what
you imagine he is: a gladhandler, a corporate man. Jack of his own trade but master
of none. An indiscreet laugher, a mockery of true humor. Then you turn around.
He is also very,
very cute. Clean-cut, conservative, a close-cropped goatee matching his short
dark hair. A short-sleeve button-down shirt tucked over a slight belly. Black pants.
Dress shoes. Glasses.
He is talking to
the girl across from your cubicle. You refuse to call it a cube; you
simply cannot. You do not want to get so intimate, so informal, so familiar. His
laugh is familiar, chummy, uncanned. It contradicts what you already believe
you know of him. You don’t like that. You like writing people off – quick,
clean. Black and white are your favorite shades. Gray can go screw.
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