She's been staring at me since she started work here a week ago as though in recognition of some point of commonality as yet unobvious to me, though I don't spend much time worrying about it since she's pretty darned easy to stare back at, a lean but dramatically curved, almost orangish-brown Indian with long reddish-brown kinky hair pulled back in a ponytail, big glasses, and a huge smile.

Twenty-minutes into an acronym-strewn Friday afternoon meeting, seated perpendicularly next to me in the last seat by the foot of the table she leans half sideways and whispers urgently and conspiratorially, "I need you to explain these things to me, may I have some of your time next week?"

"You can have as much of my time as you want," I answer, "Just schedule something on Outlook."

Fifteen minutes later, the meeting logically concluded, I stand to encourage an actual ending, and look down at her, leaning forward on the table, listening intently to the others still talking, her shirt riding up slightly on her back, the dramatic almost orangish-brown curve of her ass clearly visible all the way down in to her jeans for she is obviously, from this angle, not wearing underwear either.

Back at my desk before going home I quickly schedule a meeting for our first mutually free hour on Monday.