I disliked her from the moment I laid eyes on her. This wasn't unusual, it was true; I disliked nearly everyone I laid eyes on. But I disliked her particularly. Everything about her was sickening—her hair, always kept out of her way and always that irksome shade of soft auburn, her eyes, large and disgustingly playful, even her mouth, which was too disposed to smile at any given moment. At every turn she annoyed me, annoyed me because she managed to break through the many indifferent walls I'd long ago built, and, what was worse, she did it so easily…

"Good morning!"

I didn't look up from the book I was perusing concerning the ancient civilizations of Mesopotamia, already unimpressed with the speaker. It was not a good morning, nor would it ever be.

"The exhibits are that way," I said, pointing down the hall and hoping they went away soon. Typically, I got my wish; the ruffled, rather startled customer would hurry off to escape the tiresome, boorish employee, and I was left to myself. It had always been like this; I was used to being alone. Yet this persistent individual did not move, only stood there before me expectantly, until I at last wrenched myself away from Mesopotamia and, reluctantly, looked up at whoever it was that had made me acknowledge them. The object of my immediate hatred was but a girl—a thing of about 22, who was smiling at me as if it were a wonderful world indeed and we were bosom friends. I stared at her, neither smiling nor blinking, and, bravely, she said:

"You know, it is customary, when someone says goodmorning, to return the greeting."

"Is it?" I deadpanned, not at all mollified by a good deal of reddish hair and big, hazel eyes.

"Yes," she said, blushing now. "Or, such was my impression."

"You were under the wrong impression," I said coolly, and turned away from her, back to my book. Her next reply was somewhat heated—a petulant little thing.

"You're exceedingly unfriendly."

"You're the one heckling a museum curator."

Her flush deepened at my words, and I distinctly saw her eyes flash; maybe if I got her angry enough, she'd flounce off and leave me alone. I decided it was worth a shot.

"I suppose you think I'm aggravating?"

"Right you are."

"And I suppose," as her voice became steadily hotter, "that you want me to leave?"

"Correct again."

"And I suppose it would be just too troublesome for you to tell me your name?"

"Aren't you on a roll."

She was furious by now, and I congratulated myself on a job well done—but suddenly this very irritating female smiled, and her eyes lit up, almost as if I'd given her a tantalizing challenge.

"Well, I'll find it out, then."

"You do that."

"I shall," she said, and there was a hint of obstinacy in her voice—as if she took the whole stupid thing pretty seriously. "I'll be back soon, you wait."

"I'm all a-flutter with anticipation."

She walked on, and I shrugged and buried myself back in my book; I seriously doubted whether I'd ever see that girl again…and what's more, I really didn't care.

"Bernard, you'll be staying late again."

Kate Hemming swept carelessly into the staff room, not even looking at me as she spoke. I jerked my head in an unnecessary nod; it didn't really matter if I agreed or not. It hadn't ever mattered. Pouring herself a cup of coffee, she continued:

"The French Revolution exhibit needs to be swept again, and the souvenirs in the gift shop need to be sorted. Work on it."

Again, the nod which she simply assumed was there; without another word, she left, and I sighed. Another night late in the museum. Another night of toast and coffee for dinner. Another night of sheer, unrelieved boredom, only intensified by the heavy silence of my tiny, two-room apartment.

And they said life was beautiful.

11:00 PM. I dragged myself wearily up the narrow, creaking steps to my apartment, holding my breath habitually so as not to inhale the stench of stale coffee and cigarettes. Fumbling with the lock on my door, I mumbled a few choice words under my breath and, not even bothering to turn on the light, fell into bed and then into sleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

The girl came again the next day, and this time she was grinning hugely; I turned away from her and hoped she'd take the hint. No such luck.

"Hello, there, Bernard!"

Dammit.

"Ah, so I misjudged you," I said in an utterly toneless voice. "You're not just a pest; you're also an amateur stalker."

"Very funny," she said, breezing right by my wit and holding out one hand—she couldn't honestly expect me to shake it. She'd be disappointed if she did. "No, I'm not a stalker; if you must know, another employee told me. I asked the name of an unsociable man with messy blondish hair and glasses and she knew immediately whom I was talking about. My name is Gwendolyn Sharp."

It was almost amusing to wonder why she thought I cared; I raised an eyebrow.

"Good for you."

Her hand stayed stretched awkwardly in mid air; when I didn't take it, she sighed, as if watching the antics of a stubborn toddler.

"Look, let me teach you something. Usually, when two people meet, they say good morning—we learned that yesterday, remember?—and then they shake hands. It's a very well-known custom all over the world; you should try it."

"I'll pass," I said, shrugging; I refused to shake someone's hand, especially if that someone was an irksome, forward girl who didn't know when to leave someone alone.

"Come on, Bernard," she said, and her sarcasm was gone; now she was trying the openhanded appeal to reason. "Why don't you like me? Why won't you let us be friends?"

"Why indeed," I said, shrugging. "I'm not looking for a friend, sorry to break it to you."

"Well, in life you ought to keep an open mind," she shot back, a little angry that I'd thrown her attempts at comradeship out the window. "You never know when you'll find something unexpected."

"I'll keep that in mind," I told her, tonelessly.

Gwendolyn Sharp took a deep breath and I watched, slightly amused, as she did her best to control herself, and to stifle the irritation most people vented on me quite freely. Well, she did try.

"Bernard, like it or not, I WILL be your friend," she told me, and there was an ominous glint in her eye as if she was pronouncing my death sentence. "So get used to the idea. It WILL happen."

And then she walked off, and I felt a strange tug at my mouth at how aggravated and yet how philanthropic she was—it took a few moments for me to realize it was a smile.