Chuck hates the computers.Chuck hates the computers. He likes football. So, as it was Monday, I suggested he go down to Ringo's and watch Monday Night Football on the big screen, and I would fix my directory and then join him at eight. He fell for it, dear Chuck, and cleared out of here at five. Tom was getting ready to leave, too, so Chuck never gave him a thought, _but_ Tom always catches the five-ten bus and that gave me the time I needed to work up my courage and call him over to my desk. He was very understanding and obliging, as always, and called home to say he'd be late, and stepped right over, eager to be of service. My knight in shining armor! I even said so, and would you believe it, he _blushed_. I suggested we work from the terminal in Chuck's office, where the printer is for our workgroup, and we went in. I left the door open at first; Tom is skittery with ladies and I didn't want to scare him off before I had a chance to set the hook. He cracked the directory in no time, printed you out, read over the first couple of paragraphs to make sure you were OK, and became, oh, terribly quiet. At this moment I closed and locked the office door. Tom didn't hear my move, but he set the printout down with a shaky hand and turned as if to go. I leaned back on the door, with my hands behind me. I had on my most effective sweater, the v-neck with just a hint of cleavage, a light blue cashmere, and matched it with the most vulnerable expression my face could manage. It's a man-killer; has worked on Chuck every time on, well, _lots_ of occasions, and gotten me out of a lot of speeding tickets too. Tom could hardly throw poor little me aside and run away, so he had to hear me out...and I made a point of not talking too much. |