He is short. And has curly hair. Not the pretty kind, either. He has glasses on, the frames are quite unbecoming. He wears shirts in violent colors and jeans that sag at the bottom. And his t-shirts are also stretched quite thin around his ample waist. He has a terrible accent and his English is broken but this doesn’t prevent him from trying to use big words in the wrong places in his reports.
He sits across from me; by the time he decides to saunter in to the office, I’m usually halfway through my report for the day. Ever since my boss called me sunshine, he feels that it is appropriate to pop his head over the divider and say, “good morning, sunshine”, every day.
But when I was sitting in the blazing sun, ripping out bits of paper for the corporate treasure hunt when everyone else sidled away to chill by the pool (because who wants to do work on a paid day off in the middle of the week?), he ambled across with a bottle of cold water and a packet of chips and sat down with me till I was done.
