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“What is it?” I asked as she sat down, then immediately corrected myself. “I mean, how are you doing today?”
Sloane was taken aback, looking at me cock-eyed. “What do you mean?” As if the question was a trap.
“How are you doing today?” I repeated. There really wasn’t another way of phrasing it. “How are you doing today?”
“I still haven’t sold a house,” she said, “if that’s what you’re asking.”
“No, I mean you… personally…”
“You’re asking how my day is going?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“You never ask us how we’re doing. You always want to get straight to business.”
And now is no different, I thought. Why can’t you just say “Fine” so we can move on?
“I’m asking today,” I said. “I want to make sure your…” I looked at the screen, searching for the right buzzword. “…your mental health is strong.”
“I’m doing very well, Mr. Hartford,” she said. “Thank you. How are you?”
“Fine,” I said quickly. “What do you need?”
Sloane folded her hands on the desk and bit her lower lip, looking up in the corner of her eyelid, searching for the right words, presumably. There was an anxious feeling in the pit of my stomach. After all, this was my valuable time she was wasting right now. Why did she bother knocking on my door if she hadn’t figured out what it was, she was going to say ahead of time?
I had to admit, though, there was something endearing about her mannerisms. It was difficult to look away. More than anyone else I’d seen, she was animated and, dare I say it, cute. Very cute. She had that aura of sunshine around her like she’d described — it was difficult not to smile when she was in the room, though I managed to maintain my professionalism.
I wondered how necessary that professionalism was. Back when I started, a stern expression was a requirement around the office, but times they were a-changin’. The auditors would contact me in a few weeks about their silly email and I wanted to be able to tell them that I at least tried to follow through on their suggestions. So, I allowed the smile to break through, if only just a little bit.
“What’s wrong?” Sloane asked. “Oh my God, are you having a stroke?”
The smile dropped from my face. “I’m smiling, Sloane.”
“I can see that. Why? What about?”
Now I was the one struggling to find the words. “You’re just. You look uncomfortable. I’m trying to put you at ease.”
“Oh,” she said, tilting her head and smiling back. She examined my face for a brief second, just enough so that it wasn’t awkward. “You have a very nice smile, Mr. Hartford.”
It was like a punch to the chest, except it felt good. And I wondered, for a brief moment, if I was in fact having a stroke. That’s not what it was, though. It took me a few seconds to identify what the feeling was.
I was happy.
Not overjoyed, like a child running in a field on a sugar high. No, this was a subtler form of happiness. A temporary contentedness. If I was a cat, I might let out a little purr.
I wasn’t a cat, though, and I didn’t like the feeling one bit.
I was a professional and, as such, I sat up in my seat accordingly.
“How can I help you, Sloane?”
Her shoulders relaxed a little bit, and she kept her smile as she said, “The Dyer house is crap.”
Though her face expressed happiness, her voice did not.
“What, exactly, do you mean by that?”
“It’s C-R-A-P,” she said. “It’s a huge pile of retched, disgusting, diarrhetic shit. It’ll attract plenty of flies, but no customers.”
