When Interns Attack

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. 

It’s subtle.

So subtle.

“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.”

“One apple.”

“Yes.”

“But not in one sitting.”

“No.”

“You gnaw at that one apple all day long.”

“Yes.”

“Are you trying to kill me?”

She smiles. 

I frown again.

I’m clearing the shoes from underneath my desk right after lunch.