Angie, pop quiz: a guy grows up, somehow, and finds you working in his office (you also find yourself working in same office, of course) and he keeps looking over at you and says hello and goodbye (although ‘hey’ and ‘see ya’ were in practice the salutes he more often offered) as you enter and exit the open-plan second-floor office and has what would appear to be (as they say)
meaning in his eye. Do you a) wait to see his move(s), if any, b) encourage him to initiate said move(s), or c) make a move yourself?
Choosing a) you find that no moves - singular nor plural - are forthcoming from the guy, and this notwithstanding your reciprocating of basic pleasantries of smiling and saying hello and goodbye on the occasion of your coming to and fro from the office respectively and his ridiculous turn-all-the-way-around glance to acknowledge your entrance/exit.
Choosing b) you actually walk over to his desk upon spotting an opportunity to do so via a female colleague’s happening-to-be-over-there talking with him and sit down - it is lunchtime and not a reach for you to have supposen that the pair’s conversation may be un-work-related: it transpires that it is work-related and additionally what would appear to be a mannerly but terse argument (the female colleague in question’s
modus operandi being of a sustained argumentative nature) and thus mischoosen as a
moment decked in potential. To boot, up close you notice what from afar looked like ambiguous blotching to be essentially a rash on the guy’s face.
One further attempt is made which is altogether more successful in that an exchange of words - a conversation, even - occurs as you both prepare a cup of tea in the narrow canteen area. There is a lot of smiling and with a nervous glee exasperated comments on the practicalities of living in London are made. The scene is perhaps tainted by the walking-in of your colleague who joins readily into the conversation and orchestrates the expression of her own views on the practicalities-of-living-in-London issue with easy competence. The guy leaves soon thereafter appearing curiously abashed.
Nothing further is seen to happen. Quite the opposite, in fact, to what you had endeavoured to stimulate occurs: the level of
connectivness between you is reduced: he has ceased to throw turn-all-the-way-around glances your way and on several different occasions on which by chance you had caught each other’s eye he had quickly removed his eye contact without further notice. Indeed, months go by in this vein.
Of late, though, another shift has seemingly occurred. You have yourself decided against the prospect of chasing after some fool of a manboy. You realise that while his actions were basically inappropriate on an emotional-intelligence scale, they were moreorless innocent and naïve and so pardonable as mere social incompetence. It is the fact that you were found to be encouraging these (these what? advancements, signs, signals?)
acknowledgement actions on his part, albeit minimal, that you now regret. So, you thought, he could go FUCK himself if he thought himself solely capable of playing this silent game - he’d see,
cunt.
But a shift again was seen to occur. He had renewed his campaign of turn-all-the-way-around glances and once, on a Thursday, as you were about to leave the office for home and had stopped to survey the contents of an opened box, he had said ‘Biscuits, eh?’ (in reference to the contents of the opened box, a medley of cheap items with logos intended to be distributed at a future event for publicity reasons) and when you had rejoined with an observation on how you had been looking at this box for the last god-knows-how-many days all the time enlarging your curiosity of the prospective
goodness of the biscuits (individually wrapped) and whether it would be allowed for you to take one he had offered back what would (and should (but wasn’t)) have been a witticism if it had been witty or even humorous but was neither and was only offset by the intimate tone of his voice and his actual movement in his swivel chair, rotating himself to face you directly to discourse on these biscuits. As you climbed down the stairs you felt again warm toward the guy and, as before, were curious at the oddness of men and the relief social typicality can bring.
It was not until fifteen days later, on a Friday evening, the office now empty aside from he and you, that an actual
encounter of note occurred between you. As you exited your little partitioned section - which you shared with the two other girls in your team - of the otherwise open-plan office carrying two tall (though lightweight) painted canvases that you had purchased in Italy for that same colleague whom interrupted the Canteen Moment and now needed temporarily back in your possession in order to decipher specifics of technique he raised his gaze from his computer monitor and glanced in your direction and, seeing the canvases, stood and enquired as to what you had there then? and immediately following this up with the accurate observation of what it in fact was - ‘Is that two tall painted canvases?’ [sic] - and furthermore asked if he could look.
Men never do realise the trouble they put women to, do they? Your canvases (or your colleague’s canvases, but you bought them, although you did give them as a gift, but whatever) - backsides facing out - had been bound at the base with a triple-wrapping of masking tape. Encouragingly he held the canvases firm as you were left with little option but to kneel and loosen the tape. Finally done you extracted one painting and held it with your right hand, freestanding. You told him that the paintings are viewed together - two halves of a whole - and so the second painting should be manevoured to rest side-by-side with the former. He appeared to not fully comprehend your instructions as he immediately let go his support of the canvas resting against his hands, trusting the prop of a desk edge, and walked around to view the pictures that still were not positioned correctly. The propped-against-the-desk canvas quickly began to slide forward on its base and required your foot being placed in front of it before some unforeseen damage may be occasioned. He apologised a little clumsily and continued his smiles. He said the pictures were good without much ado in his viewing and asked whether you had done them. You answered to the negative and explained how they had been bought in Italy and that you were temporarily reappropriating them for your own work, inserting the fact that you are an artist as a qualifier to this. He either feigned or did not feign keen interest in this revelation (you were suspicious, though, as so far as you had understood it, it was common knowledge about the office what you do) and looked at you askance. You told the guy that you currently were exhibiting some work in a gallery close by and that if he wanted then perhaps you could both go over some lunchtime for a look, simultaneously pulling from your shoulderbag a glossy flyer with details of said exhibition and handing it to him as a visual aid. He seemed impressed, in fact saying ‘I’m impressed.’ He also indicated his eagerness to make good your proposed gallery expedition and held one of the canvases as you replaced the other back into the masking-tape bind. He then opened and held two doors in succession for you as you made your exit into the stairwell and bid his goodbye in a confusion of non sequiturs.
This was good. He had revealed his cards - or at least
a card, or, losing the card metaphor, he had revealed an openness to engage, a willingness to speak the necessary and inane words required to construct an intimacy between two persons. It was indefinite what attracted you to the guy, indeed indefinite whether you were attracted to him, the word ‘attracted’ holding as it does such definite connotations in contemporaneous social construct. It was also unclear whether he was attracted to you, to what extent, and if he had any intentions to act upon this (he did seem the silent type).
When, one week later, again on a Friday, you had been on your way out of the office for lunch and exiting into the stairwell found the guy climbing the last steps and now coming toward you evidently with something to say you quickly got out of him that he had just attempted to visit the close-by gallery where your work - you could have preferred it to have been a different piece, but, you know, what can you do? - was being shown. ‘Attempted’ because the gallery, so he said, was closed - he in fact elaborated on this saying something about speaking to 'a female voice' through an entrance-door speaker and being ‘advised’ (his verb) that public viewings only occur weekends, 12 - 6pm. You were confused at this and felt you ought to explain or apologise or remedy in some way his frustrated endeavour. You told him that you were popping out for half an hour and that you would come speak to him on your return. He seemed pleased with this prospect and said ‘See ya later.’
Things seemed to be manovouring into position; you had not yet decided if this was something that you wanted. You vaguely considered his pros and cons as you cycled to your nearby tiny bedsit to heat up some of yesterday’s bolognaise. At the trafficlights as you awaited the colour to change you were suddenly struck with the thought, then image, of the guy -
the guy - naked. You smiled in reaction to this absurd piece of subconscious jugglery and then looked around to see a plump and probable argumentative (she wore her forehead in a frown and heckled her three young children with disapproving instructions) black woman staring at you disapprovingly. It was his imagined skinniness - the taut and stringy arms, protruding rib cage, hairy legs - that had drawn your smile. You were, you realised, beginning to internalise an image of the guy that was not quite the correlative in existence. This too amused and - yes, why not admit it? - pleased you. He was beginning to please you, you realised. This, you decided, was good.
Angie, pop quiz: do see.
