So basically, there’s this new girl in my office right? She’s a redhead, tall, and really good looking; the whole package. Me being a bloke with basic & primitive desires I decided to see about scoring a date with her…
That’s how it all started. Sam Clarke, one of my closest friends randomly popped up on Facebook last night and started telling me about a short story he’d started to write witting in college one afternoon. By 11pm he’d finished it and asked me to have a read.
I’ve always known he’s been good at English so it was no surprise to me that this was so amazing that I just had to share it with you.
So go on, have a read!
“So basically, there’s this new girl in my office right? She’s a redhead, tall, and really good looking; the whole package. Me being a bloke with basic & primitive desires I decided to see about scoring a date with her, and out of nothing but sheer curiosity I opted to try with a technique that was a little ludicrous. There’s slim chance my boyish looks would ever captivate her enough for her to ignite a conversation so a method peppered with intellect was indeed rather compulsory.
Almost daily, she will walk past when we in Block F all enjoy a routine coffee break. She doesn’t want my attention, she’s just en route to the machine, but she is forever in earshot amongst those 45 odd seconds it takes for her to walk by, get her coffee and walk back. It’s a nice burst of radiance to illuminate the otherwise dull setting but it sure as fuck makes the area even bleaker when she disappears.
One day, my co-worker and I were sat down almost cheek to cheek on the terribly padded, uncomfortable & cramped chairs adjacent to the coffee machine, and I was sipping my drink whilst I anxiously waited for the fair lady to turn the corner. As she graced the corridor with her presence I boldly asserted myself by standing up and saying “Morning Tara!” to which, naturally for a woman of her stature, she stared blankly back and continued in her mundane caffeine related endeavours with a thunderous expression. To my colleague this was hilarious, but this to me was a serious foundation.
For the week after I set my actions on repeat. Sometimes I would just gesture and say “Hey Tara”, but she wouldn’t ever deviate from looking down on me, literally as well as metaphorically when the greeting was whilst I remained seated. Depending on the timing I would sometimes cross over with her whilst obtaining my drink, so there was quite a nice variety to the greetings. I would never, however, purposely go out of my way to intercept her path or to get her attention with any means deemed flamboyant, because straying anywhere near her office zone would look borderline obsessive. I remained a subtle yet constant figure in her daily rounds, hopefully something that would play on her mind if only ever so slightly. I just about managed to tolerate the laughter and the jibes of various colleagues who would respectively view my apparent failures day in, day out.
This charade in its entirety was simply padding for a reaction. I knew her name wasn’t Tara, it didn’t really take too much intelligence or initiative to spot it stitched into her collar tag that stuck out every so often, to notice it on her coffee cup, or even to clock it stitched into the front of what I assume was her diary. Her name was Scarlett, a stunning name to accompany a stunning woman; a name that sung a pretty song in my head as it skipped hand in hand with her appearance. It took 6 days of this ritual, but in the end she actually replied with the four words I knew she’d say eventually.
“My name isn’t Tara”.
This was an inevitable retort. It really didn’t take me too long for me to coolly slide straight into the scripted reply that had been dancing around my head for almost a week. I apologised and explained to her that a girl I once met in a bar had that name, and she too was outrageously gorgeous. She blushed after that sentence. I continued on to say that after a redundant night of fun I never called the girl in question. With that I subtly glanced down to the floor with a look of slight disappointment, turned, and returned to my office block without saying another word, or giving a chance for her to. For the first time there was silence in the area, as it was unavoidably apparent that my image and personality had never, even for a second, given off the impression I would be the type of guy to have a one night stand. I checked myself in the slightly cracked mirror that hung drearily at the rear of the door to the hall as I exited; noticing in the corner that Scarlett had watched me leave. Perfect. The day after, she wasn’t in work, due to nothing but pure coincidence. The dice fell again in my favour as it meant she had a day to reflect on the intriguing seed I had planted in her subconscious merely 24 hours previous.
When returning to the scene of my personal victory I noticed upon my entry that the array of co-workers who had accompanied me whilst I falsely greeted the wrong woman were dotted around the coffee machine, each bearing their own look of interest toward me. “Well?” they sang in unison, “what happened?” I started both my speech and the coffee machine. “Listen. If a girl is aware that you have let someone down in the past she will usually not even look twice. However in the instance of Scarlett, I made her fully aware, false as it may be that I once didn’t call a woman back who looked so similar to her that I got them confused. She will then, unquestionably, find some sort of sub conscious need to impress me from there on out. I assure you, when she is back, her human nature will implore her to make an impression on me. Even though it was never her that I let down, in fact never anyone, something deep inside her feels the need to almost make it right. Unfortunately gents, it is really that simple.”
Both myself and the caffeine dispenser finished in tandem. I grasped my mug and made immediately for the door, slaloming through a mixture of expressions ranging from confusion to admiration amongst the surrounding folk.
Two days passed and Scarlett returned to work. I sat in my office block prison, smashing away at a keyboard engulfed in my project. A familiar and vibrant red shine appeared over the wall.
“Hey you.”
Tara by Samuel Clarke.
After many of us moaning at him and telling him he needs to start blogging these, he’s now in the process of creating one (which I will link on here when it’s done).
Good work Sam!
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