I lean far over to the side, but Betsy’s still staring at her monitor. “Excuse me?” “I’d be exposed to less ultraviolet if I was sunbathing on the Amalfi coast,” she says, picking at her keyboard. “What has you so bubbly anyway?” “Are we actually having a casual conversation?” So far, the extent of our exchanges hasn’t gone beyond diplomatic negotiation that allows us to both use the office without war. Not that I haven’t tried to talk to Betsy. I learned pretty early on, however, that her lack of regard for matching clothes and her habit of keeping earbuds in all hours of the day weren’t an exaggeration. She really has no interest in being friends. Or, sometimes it seems, human. “You’re like a nuclear power plant over there,” she bats back, her tone annoyed but also having a bit of jest. “And you’ve been working toward a meltdown all day. I was wondering how long it would take you to hook up with someone.”
