Threads

Blush

There was a woman in his office who had been hired about the same time he had. She was somewhere in her mid twenties, tall, and attractive. Most people in the office liked her – she was kind, and good-tempered, and always made coffee when it was her turn.

The only issue was that she seemed to absolutely loathe him. He could not get within fifteen feet of her without receiving a pained glare, and she pointedly avoided him in any situation. At office parties she kept a steady distance from him, as if she were tracking his movements and corresponding hers to stay the furthest from him she could. She avoided his eyes in meetings, and never looked at him when he spoke. The small talk they made was halting and awkward, and she fled at the earliest possible interval.

She hadn't always despised him. At first she'd been reserved but kind, but gradually she had begun to show signs of dislike. He was mystified at first, and then angry, since she never did this to anyone else. Everyone else knew her as sweet, and shy, and gentle.

Her hatred was not consistent. He'd found her crying in the boardroom one afternoon. It had been an instinct to reach out and touch her arm.

"Is everything okay?" he asked.

"Tough day," she said. She was dabbing at her eyes with a mascara-stained tissue. She sniffed and smiled up at him, very watery but completely genuine. "Thanks for asking."

He squeezed her arm and smiled. "Anything I can do?"

"No, but thanks anyway," she said.

He left her in the boardroom to dry her tears and when she came back out she smiled at him again. The next morning he left an African violet on her desk by way of a peace offering, and was pleased to find her stroking the plant's fuzzy leaves with a gentle touch.

But he'd been wrong to assume her anger with him had vanished – by the afternoon he received a heartfelt thank-you letter, delivered with the frostiest air he could have imagined. He assumed, then, that she kept the violet only because she didn't blame the plant for the man who had bought it.

It was after a year and a half of glowers, angry flushes, and halting greetings that he'd had enough. He plucked up the courage to speak to her one day after a meeting.

When he said her name she raised her eyes to him. For a moment her stare was friendly.

"Can I talk to you for a minute?" he asked.

"Okay," she said.

He pulled her into the boardroom. There was no preamble. He laid it on her right away:

"What is your problem with me?"

"I don't have a problem with you," she volleyed back, very quickly. She was staring at his shoulder as she spoke, and not at his face.

He crossed his arms. "It seems like you do."

"I really don't," she said. She frowned, seemingly offended by his assertion, and it was at that moment that he truly lost it. Furious at his undeserved treatment, and at his wit's end with being treated like a pariah by a woman seemingly biased only against him for whatever stupid crime she thought he had done her, he snapped.

"Okay, you know what?" he said.  She managed to look up at him, and he was astonished to see that she looked surprised. "No. That's ridiculous. You so obviously have some sort of issue with me, and because we're colleagues I thought we could talk about it like adults, but-"

Her face flushed a deep crimson. "I don't have a fucking problem with you!" she retorted. Her eyes for a moment met his. An admiring voice murmured to him that she was really very pretty, but beginning to look very angry.