She rubs her head and I watch from behind her. Her dog – cute and sweatered – stares back at me from her feet and I bare my teeth at it playfully. Its tail wags and it stands up and it looks like it is trying to will me to come pet it. I don't.
The coffee I spilled on my sleeve earlier looks delicious to me right now. I really need to get out of work before I go more mad than I already am. The heat slides through the walls and over my skin.
She reaches down behind her and pulls her shirt down over her bare back. I snarl at the back of her head. She turns slowly and I let the snarl fade and my eyes roll up towards the wide open ceiling as if I'm lost in thought.
“My head is killing me,” she whimpers, but I act like I don't know she's talking to me even though we're the only two people in the office at the moment. I fain ignorance seeing as she talks to her dog more than anyone else for the most part.
I frown as if I've lost my train of thought.
“It really hurts.”
I'm stuck. I give in and look towards her blankly. “What?”
“My head is killing me.”
“Take some Tylenol?” I shrug and look at her dog and smile. “Hey Baby girl. Sweet little doggie.” The baby talk is high pitched and sickeningly sweet. I wrinkle my nose as her dog goes into spasmodic fits of tail wagging, then I look back down at my computer and start typing again. My
bra bites into my side and I make note of the need to get a batch of new ones.
She stands and moves over to my desk. Her hand presses at her temple and her face is twisted into a pain mask. She winces and hisses out, “I think I might have a brain tumor.”
“Yeah?” I don't look up. I'm tying, but nothing is making sense anymore. I'm filling time. My eyes dart to the clock on the screen and I shudder when I see that it's nowhere close to 5pm.
“Tell me I don't have a brain tumor.”
“Tell me I don't have a brain tumor.” Her hands move on either side of her head and her hair reminds me of Medusa's.
I hate her shiny black hair. Hate her cute clothes. I don't hate her, but she bothers me. I'm not going to give in to her wants. To hell with that.
“I don't know.”
Her dog wiggles at my feet, then licks my bare toes and I squeal and pull my foot back quickly.
“Come on. Tell me I don't have a brain tumor.”
“Well, I don't know. I'm not really a qualified brain surgeon. For all I know, you do have one. Go to the doctor and have it checked.” I shrug again. “Or take a Tylenol.”
She presses her hand to her forehead and winces again.
I sigh and stare at her dog. It grunts.
I whisper, “It's probably just the heat. Not a brain tumor. Drink some water and take one of the Tylenol. I'll get it for you.”