Deep Smit

An interesting morning, actually. A good cap to a good week.

There's a woman at work I find very nice to look at. A year ago or so, when she was new at the command, she said something friendly at the lunch wagon, and I said something very dry in response...funny dry, I hoped, but dry as a bone, I'm afraid. And then I could think of nothing else to say, which is how I generally respond to beautiful women. We parted company that morning having separate conversations with each other in our heads. Well, I can't speak for her, but I will admit that while stealing furtive glances at her while we waited for our respective sandwiches, I had a whole conversation with her that she could not have been aware of, as we both stood rocking back and forth between the balls of our feet and our heels. Later, I looked her up in the command directory and learned her first name. For here, I will call her Freckles.*

Since then, I've seen her around, but we haven't spoken since, and she's mostly walked past me with an intense look on her face, deep in thought. I am so often the one deep in thought and oblivious to my surroundings that I feel a sort of kinship with her in this. Whenever I see her, I think, "Lookatmelookatmehellohellohellopleasenoticeme," which, of course, never works.

I am such a dork.

This morning, as I was concentrating on the task of opening my safe, I heard a female voice behind me, asking for one of my office mates. "I have no idea..." I said as I spun, realizing as I spoke that I must have sounded mildly annoyed or at least don'tdisturbmeI'mbusy.

My heart stopped.

It was Freckles.

"Okay, thank you," she said, hastily retreating, thinking who knows what. Crap.

She returned later, still looking for my office mate, who had stepped out once again, so I invited her to stay for a few minutes and wait. She raided my office mate's box of "Ice Breaker" candies with a sort of conspiratorial look that was not entirely unapologetic but thoroughly endearing. We slipped into an easy, "so what do you do" conversation, and I learned that she takes tremendous pride in what she does, that she has professional goals that are in danger because of office politics that have nothing to do with her and everything to do with some of my office mates (though she is unaware of the underlying story there, just that she may not be able to achieve her goal). I found myself conversing easily with her, actually being charming. I made some helpful suggestions about how she might go about achieving her goal, and discovered that she is smart and articulate and friendly. And she smiled.

And then I realized that I was being charming.

The effect was not unlike what I imagine I might feel if I suddenly realized I was tightrope walking over Niagara Falls. (Ohdamnohdamnohdamnohdamn.)

I didn't clam up this time, but I started sweating. And not just a little. I looked like Robert Hays on final approach in the movie "Airplane!".

She HAD to notice.

I managed to avoid wiping my face with both hands, but only barely.

She managed to stay funny and sweet and bright and beautiful.

When my office mate returned, I politely made my excuses and let the two of them conduct their business, but I felt like I was in high school again. I couldn't think of much else all day. I wanted to ask my office mate, "So, do you think I should go for it?" As if he'd respond with anything other than derision: "What are you, fourteen?"

It was only after I'd headed back to my own cubicle that I realized I'd never introduced myself. Crap.

Crapcrapcrap.

I am such a dork.

But she smiled at me anyway.

*I have a distinct weakness for women with freckles. Some years ago, I spent a fair amount of time writing haiku for the mental exercise, and I wrote this one:

freckles, like living
leaves fallen across the bridge
of her nose, she laughs