Female Intern is trying to kill me.
At least I think she’s trying to kill me. It’s nothing obvious, nothing she can get into trouble for. They’ll probably find me in a heap under my desk, shoes pushed aside, perhaps a small flask at my side.
“Do you hear that,” she shrieks. “Doesn’t that just kill?”
Confused, I whirl around in my chair, eyes wide, thinking that will help. Like lowering the volume to the radio when I finally get down to the finding-the-right-house-number part of the driving directions, I stand firmly behind my widening-the-eyes-to-hear-better conviction.
And then I frown in concentration.
This woman is giving me wrinkles.
“I don’t hear anything,”
“Are you su – Ohhhh, I’m sorry,” she says, hitting a key on her computer. “It’s one of those sounds that only people under 30 can hear.”
I squint at her. “I’m clearly over 30,” I say.
She smiles. “And don’t you look great,” she says, grinning.
She got me again.
I briefly consider stapling her fingers to the keyboard.
We have a give and take relationship over here, she and I. Sitting as we do in a double-wide down at the end of the hallway, we’ve discovered that we’re equally goofy.
The apple is an example.
Turns out that Female Intern, or “Fi”, as I like to call her, can take all day to eat an apple.
“How many apples do you bring to work a day?”
She smiles, so pretty, so clear-eyed and straight-of-spine. “One.”
I frown, then just as quickly unfrown. “One? How can there always be a nibbled-on apple at your desk, though?”
“It’s the same one.”
“But not in one sitting.”
“You gnaw at that one apple all day long.”
“Are you trying to kill me?”
I frown again.
I’m clearing the shoes from underneath my desk right after lunch.