Pressure Cooker

Terese's peach dingy-bob socks proved it.

Francois straightened his peach tie, yesterday's gold, preceded by the lemon and now peach socks, exactly matching his ties! What were the odds of that equation? What were the odds of a woman just like him?

He almost ran to her, but wobbled while he waited until he manned up. He couldn't possibly face up to her like this. He'd always been a sorter, nothing pleased him more than a rainbow of ties in his top drawer sorted by color and held in their original containers, except perhaps, the monogrammed handkerchiefs all hemmed in the same rainbow.

The true name was pompom tennis socks. Oh, heaven, how could he slip up so badly.

Was she laughing at him? A quick glance showed her stalwart Swedish frame, curly hair, her face quite serious on the sheet of numbers before her. She wouldn't know him well enough yet, she'd only worked one week on their team. It must be instinctive.

He strolled over and sat down beside her, feeling his pulse quicken. He took deep breaths to still the heat rising inside him but then just about lost it when he saw her figures.

Neat Geometry font school picture numbers. Exactly parallel lines. No trace of eraser. Mimeograph (as if anyone used that old technology anymore) perfect black ink. She wrote in ink.

Why had the rooms walls moved inward?

"These are the micrgravity figures for March?" Thank goodness, his voice showed not one quiver of a quaver.

Terese finished the column and checked her addition three times, forward and backward before setting down her pen, laying it parallel to her squared to the desk page of paper.

Would his friend's believe it? He couldn't hardly believe it himself, even though he'd been teased relentlessly all his life for the exact same habit.

"Yes, there's no greater than 0.015% error in any of the figures. The volcano cone is collapsing inward. Is it warm in here?"

Her skin did seemed flushed, her eyes crossing over her nose until she met his.

"Yes, I think this office seems smaller, more condensed one might say, since the new team came on."

"I'm not the only new hire?"

"No, no, two more in finance, over against the wall, and one in communications, Helse, I think. You've met them?"

Something tapped his finger, her? Oh, gracious.

"Of course. No one said anything."

Should he put his arm on the back of her chair? The thought spread through him like wildfire, just touch that silky hair. "They wouldn't. Will you be off to Nicaragua, soon?"

"Next year, perhaps. Philip has me scheduled for Italy next month. Will you be going?"

Implosion. He carefully laid his hand on her chair, touching soft silky gold. Then he remembered. "Afraid not. Did you have any questions about the data? It looks very precise. I like that."

Her smile involved only the tips of her lips. "I thought you might. Nice tie."

Got her. She said it first. His smile felt rueful. "I like your tennis socks, nice pompoms. Do you play?"

"No, I like to watch."

Bingo. "I thought you might. Well, there's a staff meeting in fifteen minutes. I'll see you there. It's my turn to bring the coffee." Ha. Let her bring sexist charges with that one.

Standing straight, the pressure cooker of minutes before had slowly expanded to fill the room, Philip thought sadly. Too bad, she had seemed so perfect. Obviously his boss was out to get him again.