He didn’t need an assistant but they sent him one anyway. One morning he looked up from a stack of memories and there she was, a slender young thing with dark eyes and light brown hair wrapped tightly above her head in a bun. All bustle and business. She established herself at the spare desk in his office in no time at all as though she belonged there.
She looked familiar. He studied her as she worked, trying to figure out when, and where, they’d met before. Perhaps she reminded him of an actress he’d seen in a movie, or a TV personality, or a writer on the cover of one of the mystery novels he devoured so hungrily. Nothing seemed to fit. Eventually he decided she looked like a girl he’d known in college.
The Assistant proved to be ... unpredictable. He would look up to find her eyes on him, smiling a slow sad smile as though privy to his inner world. He hated the disappointment he saw in those eyes and pretended not to notice it. The next day his coffee girl – sweet and light! By turns shy, bold, sassy, severe, playful, demure, forward, aloof... round and round they went. Nobody could be that flighty. Perhaps it was her way of coming on to him. He'd been alone so long, the idea was stimulating. He thought about it at night, concocted midnight scenarios.
By day he wondered about her. The way she’d shown up so unexpectedly, how he’d taken her in so readily. Perhaps she has a hidden agenda, he thought jokingly. Corporate spy.
He made a series of discreet inquiries and came up empty. She was unlisted in the company directory, personnel claimed to have nothing on file for her, none of his colleagues knew anything about her. He played a little game with himself where he pretended she existed only in his mind. A nice irony, he thought, the sort of thing you see in stories by Russian writers.
He finally decided he had to get to the bottom of the matter, determine her position in the company hierarchy, the source of the strange tension between them. The only viable approach seemed to be the direct one though it was contrary to his nature. He’d talk to her, explain how he’d come to feel about her in the however long they’d worked together, that he wanted to move their relationship beyond the workplace. It had to be done, and soon.
He’d do it this week, tomorrow even. He rehearsed the speech in his head, over and over.
We’ve known each other now for...
A meeting downtown the next day kept him out of the office until just after noon. By the time he arrived she was gone. He assumed she was out sick and waited for a call, but the minutes ticked into hours and none came. Then he noticed the empty desk, found the beginnings of a note crumpled up in the wastebasket. No reason. No forwarding address. Nothing. He banged his head against the wall in an agony of rage.
He searched for her around town, in supermarkets, bookstores, coffee shops, bars... Posted ads in personal columns, conducted online searches. Tacked flyers up on bulletin boards using a picture that he’d found, HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN? Even offered a reward.
A few dead ends, then zilch. He felt like a man drowning in his own juices. He banged his head a lot.
"Not too much salt now, sweetie”, she says as he reaches for the shaker, though it’s the first he’s had all day. Just like a wife he mutters under his breath and she giggles, musical laughter like a tinkling of broken glass. Later they’ll play Scrabble together in the lounge – perhaps she’ll let him win for a change. A few of the others will no doubt stare at them and shake their heads and smirk, but what do they know? She’s with him all the time now, his Assistant. At dinner, waiting for him in his room at night, nestled beside him in bed when he wakes up in the morning. The two of them forever young, like Bart Simpson, or a dead classmate, or a song on Prom night. Devil with a Blue Dress.
She looked familiar. He studied her as she worked, trying to figure out when, and where, they’d met before. Perhaps she reminded him of an actress he’d seen in a movie, or a TV personality, or a writer on the cover of one of the mystery novels he devoured so hungrily. Nothing seemed to fit. Eventually he decided she looked like a girl he’d known in college.
The Assistant proved to be ... unpredictable. He would look up to find her eyes on him, smiling a slow sad smile as though privy to his inner world. He hated the disappointment he saw in those eyes and pretended not to notice it. The next day his coffee girl – sweet and light! By turns shy, bold, sassy, severe, playful, demure, forward, aloof... round and round they went. Nobody could be that flighty. Perhaps it was her way of coming on to him. He'd been alone so long, the idea was stimulating. He thought about it at night, concocted midnight scenarios.
By day he wondered about her. The way she’d shown up so unexpectedly, how he’d taken her in so readily. Perhaps she has a hidden agenda, he thought jokingly. Corporate spy.
He made a series of discreet inquiries and came up empty. She was unlisted in the company directory, personnel claimed to have nothing on file for her, none of his colleagues knew anything about her. He played a little game with himself where he pretended she existed only in his mind. A nice irony, he thought, the sort of thing you see in stories by Russian writers.
He finally decided he had to get to the bottom of the matter, determine her position in the company hierarchy, the source of the strange tension between them. The only viable approach seemed to be the direct one though it was contrary to his nature. He’d talk to her, explain how he’d come to feel about her in the however long they’d worked together, that he wanted to move their relationship beyond the workplace. It had to be done, and soon.
He’d do it this week, tomorrow even. He rehearsed the speech in his head, over and over.
We’ve known each other now for...
A meeting downtown the next day kept him out of the office until just after noon. By the time he arrived she was gone. He assumed she was out sick and waited for a call, but the minutes ticked into hours and none came. Then he noticed the empty desk, found the beginnings of a note crumpled up in the wastebasket. No reason. No forwarding address. Nothing. He banged his head against the wall in an agony of rage.
He searched for her around town, in supermarkets, bookstores, coffee shops, bars... Posted ads in personal columns, conducted online searches. Tacked flyers up on bulletin boards using a picture that he’d found, HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN? Even offered a reward.
A few dead ends, then zilch. He felt like a man drowning in his own juices. He banged his head a lot.
"Not too much salt now, sweetie”, she says as he reaches for the shaker, though it’s the first he’s had all day. Just like a wife he mutters under his breath and she giggles, musical laughter like a tinkling of broken glass. Later they’ll play Scrabble together in the lounge – perhaps she’ll let him win for a change. A few of the others will no doubt stare at them and shake their heads and smirk, but what do they know? She’s with him all the time now, his Assistant. At dinner, waiting for him in his room at night, nestled beside him in bed when he wakes up in the morning. The two of them forever young, like Bart Simpson, or a dead classmate, or a song on Prom night. Devil with a Blue Dress.
