I keep running into the pair of them. First the woman; then the man.
Both act nice enough. They each appear well-groomed, civil and polite; very professional, yet not over-ambitious in the least. I don’t know either one of them, though.
She stood up as I parked. When I headed toward the book cart in her charge, the older woman laid a protective hand across several of the stacks, as if to steady the load, while she began steering the pushcart in my direction. It seemed like a moment of pleasant surprise for her.
“Don’t forget to have Alicia call in the directorial numbers for these.”
“Oh, sure. Of course.”
And I went on to work as she busily headed in another direction.
That evening I left the garage to drive home. Somewhere around 38th Street and the downtown area I came to a stop for a red light. That’s when he approached. He had a hand tugging on the brim of his hat and an arm wrapped around his waist as he leaned into the wind. The tails of his coat flapped as he advanced rapidly on my car from over my left shoulder, and he almost collided with my front fender.
Still keeping a hand on his hat, the younger man glanced up at me, and then stopped immediately as he realized who I was.
“Remind Alicia to call in those key numbers.”
I waved to him and nodded, and then he trudged off.
Later, I casually mentioned both experiences to my wife.
She looked at me from across the table, and then she replied,