When I watched this movie, I immediately fell in love. However, for some reason, I somehow thought that Chris Lowell's character, Kevin (Ryan Bingham's assistant), would have a bigger role. I have no basis as to why I thought so, but I still ended up extremely disappointed when the movie ended, and all he had was that one scene. Anyways, this little piece was created out of my exaggerated and over dramatic dissatisfaction that his character had been so shunned. Enjoy!

I am forever doomed to remember your auburn ponytail bouncing behind your head as you walked away.

Maybe it was your determination. Maybe it was your curtness, your precise movements, and your barely there emotion. Maybe it was your tight skirt and overly-ironed blouse. Or maybe it was that sad look you were trying to hide in your eyes.

Either way, I noticed all of it.

You were highly spoken of. At least, from what I had heard. To be honest, I don't really remember much when you first came. I think you graduated from an Ivy League. I'd figure much – a name like Natalie Keener is practically Princeton or Yale or some douche lordy school material.

I used to joke with some of the guys about you. Of course, I didn't really know you. I mean, I can't even remember some of the jokes, but it probably went along the lines of "crazy ass chick" to "Ryan must want to light himself on fire".

I can briefly recall seeing you before you left on that "remote-layoff-production-shit" extravaganza deployment with Ryan. I still don't exactly know what that was. I know you created it, and it was your job to promote it. But I really don't care whether I ever truly find out because all I know is that someone died from it, and you quit.

I remember that because I was there the day you came back to Omaha to clean out your stuff. (All I can imagine is an empty desk with a pack of gum or something in the cabinets.) But you came back anyways, maybe just to solidify your leave to Craig.

But I was there, as always, eager to witness what I thought would be a brawl for the history books.

But you came, you left, and you didn't say a word to anymore.

I didn't know you.

I don't know you.

But I wanted to stop you.

I don't know much about the whole situation or whatever rumors surrounded it because I'm just Mr. Bingham's assistant or whatever, but for a split second, I wish I did just so I could tell you that things were going to be okay. You just looked so goddamn lost and you were acting like your whole world was falling apart. I went to school with dramatic girls like you. I even dated a few.

You packed your things quickly in one neat cardboard box, and I watched from the safety of my own cubicle. People walked by and whispered not-so-quietly to each other, and I saw you tense up every time you heard, but you remained silent. I saw you bite your lip, nervous habit I initially supposed, but now I think it was to keep yourself from lashing out.

You didn't see me as I looked on and observed your calm (yet subtly frantic) movements, and while I'd admit my lurking may be a tad creepy, my reasoning may be one off your liking. It's cliché and miserably girlish, but the truth is, I couldn't stop watching you. Half of it was because it was like watching a train wreck, and the other half was because... how could I not watch you? You were like a tornado that stormed through, and if we were comparing people to natural disasters, everyone would be drizzle and you were like a tsunami. You had everyone's attention.

So then I was presented with a predicament: do I approach you?

And even when the question barely left my mind, I knew my answer was no. Still, I played the potential conversations in my head.

"Hi, you must be Natalie. I'm Kevin."

"Fuck off."

Or.

"I heard you got fired."

"Yeah."

"Yeah..."

"..."

"So how's that treating you?"

Or.

"Seeing that you don't have a job anymore, I guess you're not busy tonight?"

Your imaginary slap still stings me.

It didn't take you too long to pack your things, but after your initial arrival became faded gossip, you slowed down your packing. I saw some of your burden as your movements became more sluggish, more tormented. But you keep that cold face, the one that practically dared someone to disturb you, and you placed an unused pencil sharpener in your box.

And then you were done. You looked at the box, scanning the scarcity of the items you packed. You pursed your lips, picked it up, and walked out of the building with hardly a hello or a goodbye.

Part of me felt obligated to run after you. Maybe I should have pretended you dropped a pen or some stupid shit like that. Then I would have handed it to you and you would have stared at me and I would have stared at you and we would have done this whole staring thing and then it would all eventually lead to some big make out session, just like in the movies.

And then I really start to think about it, and I wonder about you and Mr. Bingham because you two spent an awfully long time together in a whole lot of cities. And being a straight guy, even I have to admit that he's a pretty good looking man.

Not that it means anything to me, personally.

Anyways.

Then I forced myself to stop thinking about it because, for fuck's sake, it's you and my boss I'm thinking about, and even if I don't know you, it's still so fucking weird.

Because I'm that guy who orders extra large pepperoni pizzas Monday through Friday. I go to the gym in the mornings and the bar at night, and I wear Axe almost religiously. I was Homecoming King once in high school, and I still know how to throw a jaw-dropping spiral. I'm the type of guy that doesn't like girls named Natalie or Ivy League schools or fancy programs that fires people over the internet.

But you looked so fucking delicate that I had this urge to throw my spiral at whatever person made you so depressed.

And I kind of just wanted to go up to you and hug you because it really looked like you needed a hug. (Though it would be nice) I wasn't looking to fuck you or anything. I just wanted to comfort you because from the looks of it, it seemed like you needed somebody on your side. But I felt awkward and you were quiet and I was rough and you were broken and I was forever dull and you were forever mesmerizing.

And when you pushed the glass door open, I would be lying if I said I wasn't praying to all the gods that you would drop one lousy pen. Any kind of gateway to allow me to save you from your over-dramatic misery.

But you never looked back.

And I am forever doomed to remember your auburn ponytail bouncing behind your head as you walked away.

Thanks for reading! Comments/critique would be just dandy.