Surface tension, that’s what it is.
We were both past 30, we’d both been around, there were no nerves or awkward moments, we were broken in and knew the paces.
When Emily Minton was introduced around by the Big Boss, I looked up, rose from my desk, made polite noises. She was another pretty woman of average height, slim, dark-haired, well-dressed in the way of the office. Maybe more tastefully than most: she certainly had the quality, rare even in the city of show-offs that’s Los Angeles, of not being generic.
But we were a media-oriented business, albeit a behind-the-scenes one, providing support services to the image-builders. Attractive and well-dressed people of any and all genders were not rare. I turned back to my computer and forgot about her. At one point I had to ask a colleague to remind me of her name. So it was definitely not love at first sight, nor second, nor third.
Then we worked together shepherding a minor client out of his decline. She …