She sits staring at the screen, leaning toward it, completely absorbed, chewing her gum, her long tan legs bouncing fetchingly and nervously beneath her short tan denim skirt.

She does not notice me watching her.

It is late. She yawns and stretches, her sweatshirt riding up, her long tan flat stomach bared to the world, the word "Irish" stretched fetchingly across her Irish breasts.

I clear my throat. She looks around. Annoyed as usual. She softens a little when she sees it's me. Just a little. I am cute enough to not be completely annoying. Either that or just mystifying. She mostly seems curious when she looks at me.

"Yeah? Whatcha want?"

"You sent an email asking for help."

"Oh yeah."

"And the answer was too complicated for an email response."

"You sure?"

There she's got me. I mean it was, kind of, but mostly I was looking for an excuse to see her in person.

I decide to hedge my bets: "No, not really. It was the uncertainty that decided it for me." If that doesn't cement the weird and mystifying image nothing will.

"Uncertainty of what?"

"Of what you'd say when I showed up."

She stares at me, still chewing, looking me up and down, assessing possibilities, making judgments warranted or otherwise. I am, I believe, more attractive than her former boss, but looks aren't everything. Finally she shakes her head, like a dog trying to shake off unwanted water, and returns her attention to the screen.

"Send me an email," she says, her back firmly toward me, "You're too strange for your own good."