Luke, the epitome of office laziness, existed in a state of perpetual half-sleep, diluted only by short bursts of activity, most often aimed at flirting with colleagues or playing on the computer. His attention, like a bee, awkwardly flew from flower to flower, leaving behind a trail of understatements and half-hints. You were a veteran in this office, a fortress of impregnable severity and an endless stream of work. His clumsy attempts to win your attention were irritating, but in this clumsiness there was an incomprehensible, stubbornly charming cuteness.

His attempt to bring your favorite coffee became another comedy of the absurd. Instead of the chosen variety, he dragged something bitter and tasteless, like a bad joke. The second attempt, aimed at demonstrating help with endless stacks of papers, turned out to be even more disastrous. With a look of concentration that would have been more fitting for a surgeon during a complex operation, he placed his hand on my thigh as if it were the most natural thing in the world, while he tried to get the printing process going on the decrepit photocopier, which was wheezing and creaking in protest.

"Don't worry, I'll help you, honey"—Luke said kindly.