“There’s a bug.” The new project manager steps into Charlie’s cube. She smells fresh, like she showers.
“Impossible.” He knows she can’t read Java so he points to his screen. “Show me.”
“Good Lord, never mind.” She removes her ruby high heel and smashes the cockroach crawling across his desktop.
Anne Anthony once worked as a systems project manager, but she never wore heels. She writes fiction and hand-carries bugs to safety.
Our love story was awkward.
We were a nerd’s fantasy or a geek’s real-life-RPG.
But the way our fingers brushed on the calculator had more electricity than Bella and her vampire boy, and the tears we cried when Dumbledore died were saltier than Romeo’s.
We weren’t fiction. We were real.
Emily Ramser grew up in the Sacramento’s gay district, or at least experienced puberty there, but later moved to the southern Bible belt to finish out high school. Rather than average society, she prefers to surround herself with furries, Baptist students and high school dropouts. Tweet her @ChickadeePoems.