The Umbrella Incident

DAV

Kalamari is not the correct name for a girl I once knew who had no interest in me at all. I enjoyed calling her Kalamari, but she wasn't interested in such nonsense, and I don't blame her, since I never really knew her in the first place. She was nothing but a name to me. A passing acquaintance. A whisper in the wind. Or a cold stare on a warm summer day.
This is not about her.

No, this is a story of misplaced flirtation, misinterpreted sentiments, desperate women, and savage rejection of powerful dumb lusts. It begins like some stories do:

With a Smile.

She walked in, the poor innocent dear. Thick Caribbean accent. Substantially overweight. Bright, silky garments that flow in the wind and attract curiosity from non-foreign, nonfat onlookers.I smiled at her, and I requested her card. All who enter the WC Loungemust be in possession of The Card. Specifically, the MDC Identfication Card (MIC).

She didn't have it.

She begged me to let her in, but I would not have outsiders in my private hall. She begged me to accept her number, but I am an experienced doorguard and know well the tricks and schemes of those who can memorize numbers but cannot transmogrify into the proper owners of such numbers. She begged me to allow her access to a computer, briefly, just long enough for one print-out, the schedule with her information on it that proves her eligibility to access the fruits of my facility, computers and printing being two of those privileges. I allowed it. She was grateful, and when she procured the proper information, I let her in.

She was very friendly, I may mention, which is good for her because I respond well to women of some charisma. After some time, she requested my particular assistance with a writing assignment. Writing and English are not her strong areas, but I am the Lord of the English Language.

As we discussed her ridiculous problems, I delved into her personal life. I do not particularly care about her personal life, but I have often found that abstract writing themes are easier for students to understand when they can be molded to conform directly to abstractly thematic, yet concrete, situations that the writer has personally experienced. She continued to dwell upon her lovelife and her lovers and the men who constantly hound her and how she coyly resists their stalwart advances.
I was quickly bored by her drawling, yet I couldn't help but be astounded by her stories of love, lust and life, considering she was so ugly, especially for a young girl (which she revealed herself to be. I swear I thought she was in her mid-to-late 30s). In order to avoid being the total ass that I truly am, I didn't speak out my true thoughts. I made some very light, half-hearted attempts to comfort her and tried to focus on the work at hand. Her writing was insufficient, so I really did have a lot to cover.
I worked overtime with her because I had the time, she needed the help, and because we kept on getting sidetracked. She enjoyed chatting, and I'm good at conversation. I'm good at making it seem like I care about her because, let's face it, I do. Ugh. I told her I would love to have her come by again because her work needs more work. As I said it, I could see it in her eyes. That hopeful little glitter. She was smitten. Like a kitten. With an arrow stuck between its two diamond eyes.

From then on, she came everyday. She would carry her card, secretly, and I would not be able to acquire it, swipe it, get her in the WC and get on my merry way without being incessantly hassled, poked, squabbled with etc. And she did take to poking me. I, being an introverted and so guarded that some have accused me of being a bit psychotic, was often brought to nervous giggling and laughter through clenched, irritated teeth. She thought we were the best of friends and the fondest of flirts. Every time I saw her, I wanted to hide. Unfortunately, her personality was overpowering, not to mention my understanding of my job, and I spoke with her, tutored her constantly, worked with her, helped her, and watched the little tick swell up into a big, bloodsucking monster who thrived on and delighted in my presence.

Then, one day, I disappeared. I had other work. I would be back, but she didn't know because I had no time and no desire for goodbyes. Months later, when I returned, she had long gone.

But now she's back.

I hope she doesn't harrass me with her stupid umbrella, but she's already reached over the counter to try and touch me in her mock exhasperation and giddy idiocy.

I gotta get out of here.