Grant showedup in my office on Wednesday morning a few minutes after nine with a cardboard box of accoutrements in his arms, looking like he just got fired.
I clickedsaveon my nearly complete Matchify profile and turned to face him.
“Katie said I should set up shop in here,” he said.
It took me a second to register what he meant. It hadn’toccurred to me that he’d want or need a workspace at Matchify. It should have. We weren’t exactly swimming in space, which was probably why Katie had told him he could be here.
No, nevermind.
That waswaytoo generous an interpretation of what she’d done.
“She said all the workstations are taken,” he explained, “but that you have plenty of extra space on your desk.” His gaze flicked to what might as well have been miles and miles of neat, clutter-free office real estate. I had never regretted my clean desk so much.
There was inarguably space for this man and his cardboard box.
He set it down. “I promise not to bother you. I’ll leave when you have calls.” He pulled out his notebook and set it on the desk space in front of the chair that sat empty across from me. The notebook was followed by a pencil holder, a few sharpened pencils, and finally, a typewriter.
Like this was the 1950s.
“Does that come with an after-market silencer?” I asked. “Because otherwise, your promise not to bother me means nothing.”
He ran a hand along the top of the typewriter. “I’d never silence my baby.”
“Oh, but I would, Grant.”
He frowned. “I think you’ll find the sound of The Truth Machine’s gentle click-clack soothing.”
“I think you’ll find the sound of The Truth Machine being thrown in the garbage traumatizing. You can click-clack in one of the meeting rooms.”
“I don’t think those Affection Puffs are approved by the American Chiropractic Association. The Truth Machine needs a solid, level surface, or herskey sticks.”
“There are tables in the meeting rooms, Grant.”
“Katie said there’s a company policy against their being used for more than ninety minutes at a time.”
“I’d love to talk to Katie about this newfound passion for Matchify policy.” I could remember more than one occasion where she’d curled up in an Affection Puff for at least two and a half hours.
Grant sat down and got comfortable, tweaking the placement of his typewriter. “I’m sure that’ll be a fascinating discussion. Are you ready to get started? Your profile is itching to be filled out.”
“Already done,” I said a bit smugly.
He went still and looked at me.
I knew he’d be annoyed, but it had been a calculated move on my end. I didn’t need Grant looking over my shoulder while I tried to walk the tightrope of honest but restrained responses.
“We agreed I would watch the process from start to finish,” he said.
“You were there when I started the profile process. You even snooped on my answers. Now you can watch me press the submit button”—I grabbed my mouse and made a show of it—“and we can move forward.”
There it was. That laser-like gaze. It was part sniper-rifle, part X-ray machine—precise and penetrating.
“Fine,” he said, his voice energetic as he stood. “Let’s do that. Time for the matching process, right?”
A cold shock of fear slid down my spine, while three bright-white words flashed across my mind:No match found.
I shook them off. “That’s the next step, yes. But you can get settled first.”
“Done and done.” He grabbed his chair and pulled it around my L-shaped desk until it bumped mine.
