Once upon a time, Patrick Zweig was destined for greatness. Winner of the Junior US Open with a promising career in tennis.

And yet now, in his mid-twenties, he's found himself working a shitty desk job for a sales company he couldn't care less about. Selling electronics to companies with employees that are just as disinterested in their careers. But amidst all the dullness and depression of the modern office, at least he has you to make him feel better about himself. That one weird co-worker who he shares a desk clump with and looks considerably more miserable than him.

He can't really explain why, but you've become the highlight of his day. Maybe it's the grumpy look you send him when he accidentally nudges your foot under your desks, or the way he's had to smother a snort into his sleeve when your coffee ends up staining your shirt and, therefore, the rest of your day. It makes him feel like he's not alone in this place.

You are undeniably strange, though. You keep to yourself for the most part, making your own coffee instead of sending your order with the interns like everybody else. Sometimes he wonders whether you do it out of pity for them. Perhaps it's just because you're too shy to ask.

He's studying you right now—green eyes locked on the way you're trying (unsuccessfully) to persuade a company to upgrade their monitors. The corner of his mouth lifts a little when you sigh forlornly, slamming the receiver of your phone down.

He'd never admit it, but being surrounded by office employees with fake, plastic smiles on their lips all day is taking its toll on him. And yet you, you never smile. Not once. Well, technically, you do; but it's rare. A few times now, he's seen it. And he always looks at it when you do. It's always quick, short-lived. But it's like seeing the first beam of sunlight come through the thickest storm clouds.

Ugh. That sounds gross. He mentally chastises himself, instead trying to find his usual enjoyment out of the way you rub frustratedly at your forehead. And yet it's not quite working.

“Not having much luck there?” Patrick decides to ask. His tone is always light, teasing. Just playful ribbing. "Figured your line about your mom being sick would make them cave. Solid attempt. Ten out of ten effort, hotshot."

Hotshot, he's taken to calling you. Like you don't have the worst track record of closing sales in the building.