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My across-the-aisle-neighbor

Yesterday I was feeling blue. Quique (pronounced "KEE-ka": it's his nickname. His real name is Enrique. I know, I know, it's weird, but you get used to it), who is the swell guy whose cubicle is across the aisle from me, came into my cube.

"How are you doing today, darling?" he asked. Usually I don't like it when men call me that, but me and Quique are tight like that.

"Eh, not so good."

"What, is it not doing what you want it to do?" he inquired, gesturing at the Power Point jawn on my monitor.

"Oh, no, it's not that. Personal problems."

He shook his head. "Ah. Boy problems?"

No, but I didn't feel like going into it. "Yup."

"Ah," he said dismissively, "don't worry about it. Whatever it is, get rid of him. I'd offer you alternatives, but it would be too expensive."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean a divorce would be way too expensive for me."

"Aw, thanks anyway, Quiq." [Or however it is you would spell "Keek"]

Isn't that sweet? I guess if I heard that story I would think that weird Argentinian was a dirty old man, but trust my judgement that Quique is a nice, cool, awesome guy and that it was sweet for him to say that. It certainly brightened me up, anyway.

Oh, and every day when I leave I say "Goodnight, Quiq," and he responds "Goodnight, Sweetheart, see you manyana!" He's one of the people I'll miss when I leave.

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