She's Fierce

When they showed me where my office would be, the first thought that came to my mind was that I'd have my very own Cerberus of sorts.  The legal assistant seated right outside my door is an African American woman of stately, even striking beauty.  She's slim, fit, sharply dressed, and has clear, piercing eyes, which are either light brown or Elizabeth Taylor-violet.  I'm not sure because I haven't yet had the nerve to look her straight in the eyes.  She rarely smiles - at me, anyway.  She's authoritative, well-trained, and efficient at her job, and she knows it.  She also wears a long brown wig, and when her head itches, the wig shifts gently when she scratches it with a long stick.

We'll call her Angela.  And I'm pretty sure Angela dislikes me.  I've been here two months now, and am acutely aware that she can hear all the goings-on inside my office.  Like all the rapid typing, as fast as torrential rainfall, that can only mean that I'm chatting or blogging.  Like when my phone goes off for personal calls and non-work-related text messages.  Angela is a pro, and she doesn't just guard the doorway to my office, she guards this office as a whole.  I'm sensitive to the fact that Angela keeps accurate tabs on the lost productivity to the company occurring inside my office.

I wish Angela liked me.  I'm not sure why she doesn't like me, even if I have my hypotheses.  Initially it was disappointing, turned unsettling, turned irritating, evolved into an unnatural fixation to find out why, once and for all.