An Office Romance

February, 1997

The first time Ken678 saw Mary97, he was in Municipal Real Estate, queued for a pickup for Closings. She stood two spaces in front of him: blue skirt, orange tie, slightly convex white blouse, like every other female icon. He didn't know she was a Mary; he couldn't see which face she had. But she held her Folder in both hands, as old-timers often did, and when the queue scrolled forward he saw her fingernails.
They were red.
Just then the queue flickered and scrolled again, and she was gone. Ken was intrigued, but he promptly forgot about her. It was a busy time of year, and he was running like crazy from Call to Task. Later that week he saw her again, paused at an open Window in the Corridor between Copy and Send. He slowed as he passed her, by turning his Folder sideways--a trick he had learned. There were those red fingernails again. It was curious.
Fingernails were not on the Option Menu.
Red was not on the Color Menu, either.
•
Ken used the weekend to visit his mother at the Home. It was her birthday or anniversary or something like that. Ken hated weekends. He had grown used to his Ken face and felt uncomfortable without it. He hated his old name, which his mother insisted on calling him. He hated how grim and terrifying things were outside. To avoid panic he closed his eyes and hummed--out here, he could do both--trying to simulate the peaceful hum of the Office.
But there is no substitute for the real thing, and Ken didn't relax until the week restarted and he was back inside. He loved the soft electron buzz of the search engines, the busy streaming icons, the dull butter shine of the Corridors, the shimmering Windows with their relaxing scenes of the exvironment. He loved his life and he loved his work.
That was the week he met Mary--or rather, she met him.
•
Ken678 had just retrieved a Folder of documents from Search and was taking it to Print. He could see by the blur of icons ahead that there was going to be a long queue at the Bus leaving Commercial, so he paused in the Corridor; waitstates were encouraged in high traffic zones.
He opened a Window by resting his Folder on the sill. There was no air, of course, but there was a nice view. The scene was the same in every Window in Microserf Office 6.9: cobblestones and quiet cafés and chestnut trees in bloom. April in Paris.
Ken heard a voice.
he said, confused. Two icons couldn't open the same Window, and yet there she was beside him. Red fingernails and all.
she said.
She pointed to her Folder, stacked on top of his, flush right.
he finished because it was in his buffer. She had the Mary face, which, it so happened, was his favorite. And the red fingernails.
she said.
Ken said.
she said.
Ken showed her his Folder trick even though she seemed to know it already.
he asked.
she said. She held up a hand with red fingernails.
Ken said.
she asked, smiling that Mary smile.
Ken tried to think of an answer, but he was too slow. Her Folder was blinking, a waitstate interrupt, and she was gone.
•
A few cycles later in the week he saw her again, paused at an open Window in the Corridor between Copy and Verify. He slid his Folder over hers, flush right, and he was standing beside her, looking out into April in Paris.
she said.
he said. Then he said what he had been rehearsing over and over:
she said, smiling the Mary smile.
Ken678 wished for the first time that the Ken face had a smile. His Folder was flickering, but he didn't want to leave yet. he asked again.
she said. She was exaggerating, of course, but in a sense it was true. She told Ken she had been at City Hall when Microserf Office 6.9 was installed.
Ken678 calculated in his head. How old did that make Mary--55? 60? It didn't matter. All icons are young, and all females are beautiful.
•
Ken had never had a friend before, in or out of the Office. Much less a girlfriend. He found himself hurrying his Calls and Tasks so he could cruise the Corridors looking for Mary97. He could usually find her at an open Window, gazing at the cobblestones and the little cafés, the blooming chestnut trees. Mary loved April in Paris. she said.
Ken said. But in fact he couldn't. He didn't like to imagine things. He preferred real life, or at least Microserf Office 6.9. He loved standing at the Window beside her, listening to her soft Mary voice, answering in his deep Ken voice.
she asked. Ken told her he had been hired as a temp, transporting scanned-in midcentury documents up the long stairway from Archives to Active.
he said.
Mary said.
Ken admitted. And he told her how wonderful and strange it had felt, at first, to be an icon; to see himself as he walked around, as if he were both inside and outside his own body.
he said.
Mary said. And she smiled that Mary smile.
•
Several weeks passed before Ken got up the courage to make what he thought of as "his move."
They were at the Window where he had first spoken with her, in the Corridor between Copy and Verify. Her hand was resting on the sill, red fingernails shimmering, and he put his hand exactly over it. Even though he couldn't actually feel it, it felt good.
He was afraid she would move her hand, but instead she smiled that Mary smile and said,
he said.
She moved her fingers under his. It almost tingled.
•
The Browser was a circular connector with no Windows. Ken met Mary at Select All and followed her toward Insert, where the doors got smaller and closer together.
she asked.
Ken said.