A few days ago I saw a High School aged girl with "I heart Stevie" written on her hand. I started wondering when I outgrew that particular phase . . . and then realized that hadn't (at least that I could remember) ever written anything like that on my hand. I was always too shy to do something like that and would covertly doodle boys' names in my note books and sometimes sketch their faces, eyes, and hands. Or I would write love poetry. I still sometimes do these things, depending on how hard I am crushing. The funny thing is that the older I get, the more I have the tendency to randomly admit to my deepest crushes and distrubute my poetry to them and anyone else who will read it. So who really is more audacious?
It was an office, not unlike any of the other offices around the city. There were windows, visible to the lucky few cubes on the ends of the rows. Then there was Vera's cube, situated next to the row of manager's offices. Today she was lucky, someone had left their door open and precious slant of sunlight escaped, warming her back and washing out half of her computer screen. "I never realized your hair was red," Tracy dumped a large stack of paper on her desk, "The florescent lights make everything look so soupy." "What is that?" she pointed at the stack of paper. Tracy only offered compliments when he wanted a favor. "I need this entered," he smiled, a dimple appearing in his cheek. "You have a secretary," Vera waved a freckled hand to her left, "Ask him." "He's sick," Tracy gave her puppy-dog eyes, batting his long dark eyelashes. Vera sighed and fought back a smile. Tracy was such a s...