It's Only Temporary

Chapter 12: Handwriting (Part 1)

David: Get a grip, wimpy guy (you came across very trustworthy there. Nice going)

Cute guy: Agrees with David

Beard guy: Looks nervous. Says nothing.

David: Makes a joke. I think it was a joke? 3 of 5 attendees laughed.

Leo.....

He'd had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from cracking up as he stood next to her in the elevator, reading. "Penny, what the hell is this?"

"Minutes," she'd responded. "See." She'd pointed with her finger to where she'd written the words 'MEETING MINUTES.'

He placed his hand over hers and shifted her finger upward on the page to the list of attendees. "You didn't catch a single one of their names?"

She hadn't responded for a second. She'd just looked down at the page where his hand was resting on top of hers. He flicked his eyes sideways and saw her bite her lip. A flush crept over the expanse of pale skin at the v-neck opening of her collar, and he watched the color slowly deepen until it nearly matched the shade of the sweater's red wool. He realized he wasn't breathing. Why was his hand still on top of hers? He'd pulled his hand away and stuffed it in his pocket.

"False," she said without looking up from the paper. "See, there's your name." She pointed. "And Leo's name."

"And cute guy and wimpy guy."

"And beard guy," she nodded. "He didn't actually say anything, but I felt like I should write him down."

"Seriously?"

"OK, forget beard guy." She clicked her ballpoint pen and crossed out the final attendee from the list.

He turned his head to look at her. "So a couple years from now when I ask you to pull the file on the Hancock deal, I'm somehow supposed to remember which of the guys in the grey suits was the cute one and which was the wimpy one?"

"It's not my fault everyone in finance wears the same color suit." She ran her eyes meaningfully down the full length of his own slate grey ensemble.

"Penny, I know we joke around, but this is an actual place of business. Sometimes I need you to-"

"Ted Severs," she interrupted.

He looked at her in surprise.

"And Alex Goldsmith," she continued.

"OK." He nodded slowly. "And you chose to refer to them as cute guy and wimpy guy because...."

"Because two years from now when you ask to see the Hancock file, you're going to look at me all confused and say, 'Penny, do you remember which one was Ted Severs and which was Alex Goldsmith?' And I'm going to say, 'Why yes, David. Ted Severs was the cute one and Alex Goldsmith was the wimpy one.' And then you're going to remember exactly who was who, and you're going to say, 'Thank you, Penny. Thank you. See, I knew there was a reason I keep you around.'"

She said this final sentence with such conviction that the laughter he'd been trying to suppress broke free. He covered his mouth with his hand, his shoulders shaking helplessly as she smiled back at him. Smartass. "That's what I'm going to say, huh?"

She screwed up her face at him, contemplating. "Either that one or your line about how you have a romantic soul. But you usually only make that joke when we're talking about your love life."

The elevator dinged as it came to a stop at their floor and the doors slid open. He handed the steno pad back to her. "Type this up," he said. "With names, please."

"Yes, Mr. Powers," she'd responded.

But she never had typed it up, apparently. There were her handwritten notes stuck in the file folder, just the way she had left them. He'd practically shoved the piece of paper in his new assistant's face when he came to her cubicle this afternoon. "Ginger, what the hell is this?" he'd demanded.

She'd looked flustered as she took the piece of paper from his hand. "I-I don't know. It looks like it's from the Hancock file you asked for-"

"This file's a mess." He'd thrown the whole folder onto her desk.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Powers. My predecessor left it-"

"Why aren't the notes typed up?"

"I didn't-I don't know-"

"Well, type them!"

"OK. Yes sir." She'd picked up the folder and looked up at him hesitantly.

"What?"

"It's just - the handwriting is a little hard to make out."

He'd lost it then. He'd raised his voice, loud enough that he saw heads peeking out all down the adjoining row of cubes. "I know the goddamn handwriting is a little hard to make out! Why do you think I want it typed?"

"Yes sir."

"Goddammit! Why do I even have an assistant? Why?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Powers. I'll get right on it."

God, what an ass he'd been. As if she had any way of knowing about about the handwriting.

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