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”“Black coffee and broccoli potato soup, huh?” the red-haired girl said from her stool next to him.“Yea.”“You ordered the same thing I did,” she smiled. And as she turned towards him, a tiny gasp escaped Frank’s lips, though the noise in the crowded diner effectively silenced it.He was awestruck, as if a bolt of lightning had struck him full force in the chest, and zapped him right through his skin and into his now rapidly beating heart. The face that turned towards him was like something out of a dream. By brown eyes that seemed like deep pools of sorrow. A button nose above pink lips, pouty but not too full. Soft amber cheeks that he longed to reach out and gently caress. And all of it framed by the most beautiful, flowing light-red hair, like a river of newly lit flame.As he turned away to keep from suffocating himself, he noticed a book laying next to her empty cup of soup. “Hunger” by Knut Hamsun. Amazed, he neglected all of his instincts, all of his doubts, all of the prior. Not at her, just looked up. She made a short noise, almost a harrumph but not quite, closed down her computer and left. I left five minutes later. It became our pattern for weeks. By the time I had been there eight weeks she had not spoken to me once except that first time. I had not spoken to her at all. Then I had occasion to go to HR about a matter and I asked the man assisting me, ‘Tell me something about the woman I share an office with.’ ‘Who is it?’ ‘I don’t know. There is no name plate on her desk and she made it clear the day I got here that she doesn’t want to know me.’ ‘Tall, skinny woman?’ I nodded. ‘Sarah Tompkins. Ph.D. loves research and hates people. She’s been here six years and produces great papers. She was married before she came here, but he died in an accident. What else do you want to know?’ ‘Where is she from?’ He looked in a folder and said, ‘Born in Bayard, Nebraska 20 November 1969. Graduated from Northwestern, got her masters from NYU and her Ph.D. from.
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