You can feel the air buzz as she nears, as the very atmosphere shakes with the echo of her frenetic energy. You make the mistake of lifting your head from your desk, intrigued by this change in your external environment, and you catch her eye.
Next, you feel the jarring shock of her exuberance as she greets you with way too much energy for 9 a.m. in the morning, or really, at any time of the day.
Her eyes are open wide, a constant look of wonder and surprise keeping them this way for just a bit too long. Her long, thick, black locks either cascade wildly down her back, or are pulled tight into a bun at the top of her head, pulling her long features up and making her eyes and nose stand out more than is necessary.
The scent of cigarettes and stale perfume permeates the air around her, billowing out from the folds of her cheetah-print clothing.
She smiles at you, at your neighbour, at everyone, the sheer pleasure of being alive and in this place, this very office, at this desk, in your presence, exudes from every pore and attacks your own self, making you want to skirt away from her and end this discomfort.
Awkwardly, you smile and side step out of wherever she may have caught you, feeling guilty for wanting to be away, but also grateful that the place you now find yourself in is calmer, serene, and you take a deep breath in relief.
As you get to know her better, her quirkiness begins to grow on you, and you find yourself wondering at her ability to laugh when the inside of her head is a dull staccato thumping headache that keeps the rhythm all through the day, never missing a beat, or wondering at how she can smile and joke while her insides twist in cramps that would double you over. You find yourself wishing you had the ability to find joy while shit is hitting the fan. And, although she comes across as rough, she’s got a kinder heart than many of the fake-polite people you’ve run into in your life.