For a year, I wanted to speak to her, but other than appropriate ‘Good Mornings’ and ‘Good Evenings’ no opportunities arose.  Other young men about the office made their own opportunities, standing before her desk and chattering away and they were always getting in trouble with Mr Lord for not being at their desks where they belonged. I could not imagine what they talked about. From time to time, I would have some work for her to type and would approach her desk and hand it to her.
“Thank you, Zed,” she would smile. Obviously, I needed to say something next, but words failed me. I would shrink away. It is all just too awful to talk about.
    In the evenings, she would depart the office as I did and walk to the station but not by the same route. I changed my course, but somehow it did not do me any good. She was always with other friends from the office, there was always this lad or that chattering to her. Often she would be just ahead of me, but I could not imagine what to say if I caught up. Other times she would be behind, but I could not dare look around. I would slow my pace deliberately, and she would pass, usually on the other side of the road, but sometimes straight by.
 “Goodnight Zed,” she would call.
 “Garbergarbarbergah,” I would reply, or something similar. It was hopeless. Somehow her passing would always take me by surprise.