"Never Been Any Reason" by James K Bowers

        Gloria Mae Richards.  It's Monday morning and, again, we will be working together.  An intimidating mound of paper adorns your desk, but you temper your resigned sigh with a quick smile.  You glance in my direction as you lift the topmost sheet from the first of several stacks.
        I sometimes wish I could tell you how much our time together really means to me but, as always, I find it is simply impossible.  There's never been any reason for you to think about me -- we're so different, you and I.  I mean, what would others think?  Society has its moral and ethic codes and could never accept what I so fervently desire.  And, in the workplace, no less?
        Yet, perhaps you don't share society's views.  Maybe there is a small glimmer of hope for us, but still I am hesitant to tell you how I feel.  It is so apparent by your words and actions that you have never given any thought to my feelings -- it's as if you think I have no feelings at all.  Well, it isn't true.  I do feel.  And I think about you all the time.  But so often it seems you hardly know I exist at all.  After close observation, one might easily form the opinion that, for you, life is "business, business, and business -- in that order".
        It was such a wonderful day when you first began work here at Gryphon Accounting.  I'm sure not everyone would recall the details of your first day as well as I, but I remember it well -- as if it was only yesterday.  Initially, it merely meant there would be someone different in one of the firm's cubicles.  However, I must admit, your timing was impeccable -- interviewed and hired just hours after there became a vacancy at Gryphon.  Your cubicle's previous occupant, Prudence Veronica Remmington-Quince, was a gratingly intractable and unforgiving, old troll.  Her manner was abrasive.  Her fashion sense made no sense.  And those were her good points.  She pounded on the keys as if the figures would post more quickly if she aided them with brute force.  Not once did she have a kind word to say to me, nor often to anyone she spoke to, and I believe most of Gryphon's work force would agree that we're better off without her.  Quite often I considered various acts of sabotage as a means to shorten her stay with Gryphon.  I say "considered," for I never acted on any of my sometimes outlandishly devious plans.  Had I, indeed, attempted to derail old Prudence's career, I am certain that I would have been successful.  However, I am just as certain that I, too, would have been discovered eventually.  It was precisely this certainty that prevented my direct involvement in the matter.  As it turns out, sabotage proved to be an entirely unnecessary expedient, as Prudence managed to insult her way out the door in a relatively short time.  And, good riddance.
        Don't get me wrong, though.  Not all of Gryphon's employees are misfits, hags, social outcasts, or worse.  On the contrary, of the firm's numerous administrators, accountants, clerks, and programmers, several could easily be candidates for a Playboy pictorial entitled "Girls of Corporate America".  Some even possess a personality of some sort.
        But, there's only one you.  And you've been working for the firm for two years, five months, and... hmmm... let's see... ah, yes:  twenty-three days.  Excluding weekends and holidays, that is.  Yes, I do keep track of things like that.  This is an accounting firm, after all.
        Your fingers dance over the numeric keypad.  Graceful.  Nimble.  Unerring.  Sensual.  Such a welcome contrast to Prudence's insistently belligerent hammering.  Working with you is always like this -- laboring diligently in silence, the only sounds the soft tapping of fingers on keys and the even softer sound of breathing.  You approve the most recent batch of entries, confidently committing them to the Oak Ridge Realty account.  The stack of orders, invoices, and bills steadily dwindles as the hours pass -- and still, in fear of the consequences, I keep my thoughts to myself.
        A cube-neighbor, Nancy G. Martins, pokes her head into the cubicle.  "Gloria, we're heading over to McAnder's for lunch.  You coming?"
        "Gee, Nance, I'd like to, but... I really need to finish up on this Bailey Battery stuff... It's been sitting here since noon Friday and they're a really good client.  I'll just grab a bag of chips or something from the canteen.  Catch lunch with you guys tomorrow, maybe?"
        "Sure.  I'll check back with you then, but won't guarantee tomorrow's chow will be as good as McAnder's.  See ya after lunch."  Then, as suddenly as she appeared, Nancy vanishes, navigating the cubicle maze, her thoughts focused on the reward to be had should she succeed in finding her way.
        Apparently I will be working through lunch with you -- not that I mind, of course.  The fact is, we do this almost forty-three percent of the time.  Business, business, and business.  Anyway, I've never been to McAnder's and have no desire to do so.  I get the impression, though, that it must be quite an impressive establishment.  Everyone who has been there has had nothing but praise for the atmosphere, food, and service.
        You leave momentarily, returning with a small bag of chips.  True to your word, your lunch is Spartan... without frills... all business.  Bailey Battery commands your attention as you snack.  You crumple the empty potato chip bag and casually toss it in the wastecan.  Lunch is "officially" over.
        The afternoon proceeds in much the same manner as the morning: the quiet tapping, the unending stream of numbers, the shrinking mass of paper.  And, just as I have always done, I hide my feelings in the task at hand.  What use would it be to tell you how I feel?  Would you... could you... believe me?
        We work into the early evening.  I wonder if your persistence is healthy dedication or an uncontrollable obsession.  David Michael Weller, Assistant Director of Operations, appears to harbor the same concern.  He stops outside your cubicle, briefcase in hand, and studies his watch for a moment before saying, "Gloria?  That Bailey account can wait another day.  Why don't you go home now..."
        Glancing up momentarily you respond, "Okay, Mr. Weller.  I just wanted to find a good place to stop for the day.  I'll only be a couple more minutes."
        "Well... all right, Gloria.  But no more than ten minutes.  I don't approve of you working yourself into the hospital."
        Three more sheets find their way from the "IN" stack to the "OUT" stack.  With a sigh, you push the unfinished stack of Bailey Battery papers back a fraction of an inch, finally deciding your day is at an end.  With gentle authority, you tap a few more keys, then press <ENTER>...
        Once more I contemplate telling you.  Instead, I simply respond, "Command accepted, User 216.  Log off in progress..."