Another example of "Eavesdroppers never hear good"

It is no secret that writers are encouraged to eavesdrop on stranger's conversations in order to observe and write mannerisms, inflections, tone, and attitude. No, really. But once in a while we overhear things that have nothing to do with research. And sometimes what we hear is about ourselves. And it isn't good.

The other day, as I walked toward the accounting office off the front lobby, four of my co-workers (a tooling manager, an account manager, the document control specialist, and the procedures manager) were having a heated discussion at the front desk. Their backs were to me as I approached, heading past them to the accounting door. Just as I reached out to grasp the handle, I heard the procedure manager's charming voice rise above the others, "All I'm saying is that purchasing shouldn't be on there. Purchasing doesn't know anything."

I screeched to a halt, my open hand inches from the knob, turned my head toward the group, and cleared my throat, preparing to ask for an explanation. Four heads turned to me and jaws dropped. Time hung suspended for at least five seconds, everyone still like a freeze flash mob. Finally, I shook my head, said, "Yeah, I don't want to know," turned the knob and escaped into accounting.

It isn't easy being the only purchasing person in a company.

Later, the procedure manager slunk into the office, giggling, and tried to explain they were talking about the procedure for when it is okay to release a tool to a customer, in which, really, the purchasing department has no involvement. After trying in vain to stifle her chortles, she said she was trying to save me from having to do useless paperwork, and that I should thank her.

She's right. I should.

But it is hard to thank someone for saying the purchasing department (just me) doesn't know anything. I would have been a little bit more inclined to thank her if she had just added "about this particular thing" to the end of her sentence.

Would that have been too much to ask?

Falling for a Smile

It is a flaw in writers that we like to eavesdrop. Jocelyn Lindsay can attest to this, since she is the one I tried desperately to ignore, but couldn't help overhearing at the Willamette Writers Conference, with scintillating results. It is now one of my most popular blog posts.

In listening to other's conversations, we can study human behavior, glimpse real-time dialog, log nuances in speech. It is research.

But today something else happened. I fell in love. With a smile.

I'd like to knock some sense into the young girl who is doing her best to ignore him. Her long, dark hair is touching the top of her short, short denim cutoffs, from which her long, tanned legs run into sockless hightops. A computer sits in front of her, silently maintaining an impregnable force field between them.

He's across from her, trying to talk her into joining him in some sort of fund-raising walk/run for charity. He tells her about it, his hands folded under his chin as he sends her a disarming smile over the top of her computer screen. She mumbles something and he leans forward, until his chin is nearly resting on the top of the computer. "Except, I wouldn't outrun you. I'd stop any time you needed to stop." His voice is smooth, like a polished mahogany table top. His dark eyes crinkle, focused on her, and the smile widens.

She runs her fingers over her mousepad, bringing up a set of images on her computer screen. She studies them. "I don't know," she maintains.

He is bewitched, his smile encouraging, indulgent. He shifts in the chair, shuffling his sneakered feet, careful not to cross over to hers, his legs covered in khaki trousers much the same color as the coffee he ignores. His gaze never falters. "You'd be fine. Give yourself a chance."

She mumbles something else, shrugging a shoulder, her fingers punching keys. He is undeterred, his wide smile showing a glimpse of sparkling teeth. "But it isn't a competition. I'd stay with you, beside you," he says.

A blender whirs and the smell of brewing coffee fills the air. She watches her screen and misses his gaze roam over her features, memorizing each one; misses the yearning; misses the delight in glint of his eyes, and the bright smile. There is no pleading in his voice, only a soft, gentle confidence in his straight back, his polite adherence to her undrawn line of demarcation.

She mumbles something else. He tips his head to the side. "You aren't giving yourself a chance. You could do this. No one would make fun of you. I'd be there with you."

She brings up another website, not even glancing up. She clicks the mouse pointer and a photo of football players appears. She shakes her head, hunches a shoulder. People get up from the table behind them, and clatter over the tiled floor to the door.

His gaze remains on her downcast eyes, and, although he still smiles, a sadness plays across his face. He gets up, straightens his navy blue polo shirt, runs a hand through his short brown hair and waits. She stands and he dips his chin. "Call me if you change your mind." She moves her body toward him, stiffly offering herself for a hug without lifting her arms from her sides. He reaches out and his arms surround her in a quick, gentlemanly hug. His eyes darken and he takes a long breath and lets it out slowly.

"Think about it. I'd be glad if you changed your mind."

He turns and ambles out.

I want to follow.

He may be in my next book.