The Puppy

by

July 15, 2006

There’s a little boy at work who appears to have a rather big crush on me.

Well, he’s not so little - he’s about 6’2" and 220 lbs and probably around 24.  He really is a sweet kid and handsome, well built and all the rest of it - and quite full of himself, in the way that young men often are.  He flirts with the secretaries in the office and has broken at least one heart in the process - to the point where I sat him down and had a talk with him about it.

The young lady in question - let’s call her Jackie -- is just out of a relationship and he’s been dogging on her (just because he can, I suspect).  He’s an outrageous flirt and although she says she knows better, she fell for it hook, line and sinker.  To the point where other people began asking him when he was going to ask her out.  The poor girl was in agony and blushed furiously whenever he was around.

Turns out that the young man in question has a girlfriend.  When I sat him down in my office to cross-examine him on the subject, it turns out that she wasn’t "exactly" a girlfriend.  As he put it, theirs was a "relationship of convenience".

"Oh I get it", I said. "You call her up after a night out with the boys for a booty call, she thinks the two of you are going out and she has no idea what you’re up to otherwise."  He at least had the good grace to look a bit sheepish.  For a moment.

"She knows the score", he mumbled.

"Rubbish", I replied, staring him down.

He dropped his gaze instantly.  "I’m not a dog", he said defensively.  Certainly not when faced with an alpha female, I thought with an inner smile.

"No, not yet.  You’re still a puppy.  But you’re getting there.  You’ve got poor Jackie all tied up in knots and you know it. You have absolutely no intention of asking her out, do you?"

"No - I never said I did."

"Then stop playing with her - it isn’t nice."

"What - I can’t be friendly?"

"You know damn well you aren’t being "friendly" to her - you’re just seeing if you can pull her.  You can’t help yourself - I know you’re not trying to be a jerk, but you have to be more aware of who you can play with and how they’re liable to take it."

Suitably chastised, he sat in my office for a moment and looked around.

A word about my office.

Full of armour and other implements of war, it’s a home away from home.  Since my nickname is Morticia (I always wear black - it hides the cat fur), you can imagine the decorating scheme.  I’ve never been a huge fan of sunlight - apart from the lawyer clichés, these meds make me very photosensitive - so the lighting is extremely subdued.

He looked at my artwork -- the coronation portrait of Elizabeth I, Paul Delaroche’s The Execution of Lady Jane Grey (mostly because I feel like I’m in for the same treatment), a Celtic raven (to honour the Morrigan), my sword, etc. and looked back at me.  And, in pride of place, my Elizabeth I quotations: "I will have here but one mistress and no master", "I will never be by violence constrained to do anything" and "My Lords, do whatever you wish. As for me, I shall do no otherwise than pleases me".

"Wow - you’re really dark, aren’t you?"

Oh God, I thought.  Not another one.  I wearily took a stab at the predictable.

"You like Angelina Jolie movies, don’t you?"

"Oh man, yeah - she’s hot."

"Go away now.  I’ve got work to do.  And behave yourself."

It’s always the macho ones, isn’t it?

Over the course of the next week, I couldn’t shake him.  Each time I turned around in court, there he was.  He found excuses to visit my office.  He just happened to be at the coffee shop every time I stopped by. He started coming in at the crack of dawn.  He was everywhere.  He told me I was a great lawyer.  He told me I was "really something".  He told me I looked "awesome" in my black leather skirt.  He complimented me on my hair, my eyes, my vocabulary, my legal arguments and my penmanship.  He told me that he couldn’t believe that I didn’t have a boyfriend.  (My response: "Why should I have a boyfriend?  I didn’t do anything wrong.")

It was kind of amusing.  Then it got complicated.

One afternoon, I was working on written submissions when he came in and plopped himself uninvited into a chair.  The phone rang immediately.  It was Jackie.

"Don’t say it’s me", she said.  "But you’re not moving in on my territory, are you?"

Oh dear.  I shooed him away, and then took her out for a coffee.

"He’s a dog, sweetie, and not worthy of your attention.  He’s only playing and he’d only end up hurting you.  Steer well clear."

"You’re not interested in him, are you?" she asked, trying but not quite managing to keep the note of anxiety out of her voice.

"Oh God, no", I reassured her.  "He’s just talking to me about work stuff" I lied.  "He thinks of me as a big sister - nothing more.  And he’s hardly my type."

I don’t know whether or not she believed me, though my lack of interest was plain enough.

Luckily, his rotation changes next week, he’ll be in a different office and we’ll see no more of him for about 6 months.  This will give the bruises on Jackie’s heart time to heal because I think he hurt her more than she’s showing.  To be fair to him, I don’t think he intended to be cruel.

As for the boy himself, I’m sure he’ll get over it.

But it’s amazing how a bit of black leather and a take no prisoners attitude will prompt ridiculous ideas in the minds of all manner of men and boys.

Till next time.

Morrigan.