Miss Gwendolyn Sharp grew to be, over the next week or so, only more aggravating; she continued to force her unwanted and bewildering presence upon me daily, acting as if I adored her tiresome company and seemingly oblivious to my many, pointed remarks about forward chits who foisted themselves upon men who had no use for them. At last, I decided something must be done; my reputation was fast crumbling around my ears as a heartless, unapproachable gremlin, and that was one thing I needed at all costs to preserve. In fact, the more I thought over it, the more evident it seemed that this damnable Sharp hussy was fast gaining a sort of ascendancy over me. Thus, I decided to take revenge upon Gwendolyn Sharp, and give her, as the cliché went, a taste of her own medicine.

I, Bernard Grahame, would, over the next few days, utterly shock and disarm the smirking Gwendolyn Sharp.

"Hello, Bernard!"

I didn't bother to look up, or move, or even blink; I was past such shows of vulnerability with Gwendolyn Sharp.

"Gwendolyn," I said, looking over a few exhibits, scrutinizing the brassy rails for sticky fingerprints. How I despised children. She perched, per usual, on said rail, and, thin pale legs swinging almost childishly, began to chat.

"So, how have you been, Bernard?"

"Wonderful," I deadpanned, too disdainful of such an inane inquiry to even consider answering it honestly. "Everything's coming up roses."

"Yes, I figured as much," she said, rolling her large greenish eyes. "Did anyone ever tell you you were hard to talk to, Bernard?"

I shrugged.

"Did anyone ever tell you, Gwendolyn, that you are an incorrigible flirt?"

I was, admittedly, a little proud of the color that spread across her cheeks, almost up to her hairline; it was rare that I scored such a victory these days.

"I-I am not flirting with you!" she sputtered, mouth falling open.

"Of course not," I murmured, repressing a smirk at the tell-tale signs of mortification in her face, her tone. Oh, yes, I had definitely found a chink in Sharp's armor.

"I'm not!" she insisted—perhaps a tad defensively. "I-I'm just trying to give you some normal human companionship!"

"I wasn't aware that caresses and frequent embraces were part of 'normal human companionship', Gwendolyn," I said, watching from the corner of my eye as she flushed more deeply than ever, and tossed her head.

This was, in a way, almost amusing.

"Shut up!" she cried, and I knew I was gaining a victory; when Gwendolyn was reduced to the primitive "shut up" she was indeed beyond retort.

"You blush like a schoolgirl, Miss Sharp," I said coolly, still struggling not to smirk. "How touching."

Abruptly she underwent one of her absurd mood changes; from the dismayed, pink-cheeked schoolgirl she became the infuriated spitfire; scarlet with sudden anger, she nearly shouted:

"Bernard, just shut up, alright? Just—go away!"

"I work here," I said, raising an eyebrow. "Thus, I am unable to comply."

She, for once, said nothing—only turned away and walked quickly off, and I immediately saw her hands go to her forehead, covering her face. For a moment, I was puzzled; she seemed dismayed, almost horrified, as if something had gone very wrong. ..but, shrugging, I recalled that I didn't particularly care, and went back to work, somewhat puzzled.

Victories over Gwendolyn Sharp were confusing.

"Bernard, when do I wish you joy?"

I sighed in pure irritation as I buried myself deeper into yet another book; conversations—or, at times, spars-with Kate Hemmings were no reason to abandon an anthology of Greek philosophers. Seeing that I didn't mean to reply, and discontented with mere contempt on the part of her adversary, she prodded a little further.

"C'mon, Bernard; when do you plan to pop the question?"

Still, I gave no reply; if she was truly going in the direction I thought she was going in, then Katherine Hemmings had truly lost her touch.

Deciding more pointed arrows were needed, Kate tried once more.

"Well, then, if you haven't popped the question, have you at least prepared her for a honeymoon night of reading history books?"

I concentrated solely on turning the page, and moving my eyes along the lines…hits at my sexual inexperience in any and all respects had long ago lost their sting. I'd been hearing it since middle school; Kate Hemmings was saying nothing original.

"Kate, why are you still here? The brandy's at home."

I heard her teeth clench, and couldn't help but allow the long-overdue smirk to creep onto my face; first Gwendolyn, now Kate. It was rare that I got on such a roll.

"Go rot in hell, Bernard."

Again, I turned the page, taking a few moments to finish the paragraph before murmuring, rather absently:

"Rotting as we speak."

"Oh, my God! Bernard? Is that you?"

I didn't bother to look up; already I knew who it was. Nobody else wore heels that absurd or had such a dreadful, news-girl-perky voice. Deciding one irritating female must be very similar to another, I did just as I had done when I had first met Gwendolyn and murmured:

"The exhibits are that way."

Roxanne Ritchi was not so impulsive and blunt as Gwendolyn Sharp; laughing uncertainly, she said, in a determinedly friendly voice:

"Still the same Bernard, I see."

I said nothing; it would be, I could tell, much easier to banish Roxanne. She was, for one thing, much less interested in keeping my company. All it would take was a little silence.

Sure enough, she laughed again, and I could feel the awkward heat on her cheeks; merciless, I read over some paperwork concerning a potential new exhibit and allowed the silence to drag on. Roxanne Ritchi might think she was Metro City's darling, but to me she was simply an aggravating, nosy reporter.

"Well, er, how have you been?" she said, doggedly keeping the pitiful, extremely one-sided conversation going. "Since er—you were er…un-dehydrated, I mean."

"Dandy," I said, rolling my eyes. And, as it was high time for me to take my lunch break, I simply turned and walked away, leaving Miss Ritchi and her stilted, desperately cordial conversation behind.

The next day, Gwendolyn returned, though somewhat less cheerful. She seemed, in fact, somewhat daunted, as if preparing to face a rather troublesome obstacle.

"Hello, Bernard," she said, smiling not quite so brightly as usual.

I said nothing; surely she no longer expected a reply.

"How are you?" she asked, as she always did. In keeping with the norm, I said, with an air of utter disinterest:

"Fine. Are you still unreasonably angry?"

She flushed, as I had thought she would, and said, with rather embarrassed defiance:

"Do you care?"

"No."

"I thought not," she said, and she looked, for a moment, faintly unhappy. "But, as for your question, no, I-I'm quite over my little…temper spell. I'm touched that you inquired, however," with a touch of her usual impudence. I shrugged, determined to be victorious in the often senseless battle that was conversation with Gwendolyn.

"I heard Roxanne Ritchi came by today," she said, in a strange voice. Wondering why she would possibly care, and praying she wasn't one of Ritchi's insufferable followers, I murmured:

"Briefly."

This seemed to irritate her, to a certain degree; smiling almost forcedly, she continued:

"Did you talk to her?"

Another shrug.

"Briefly."

"Oh," she said, biting at her lip as she spoke. "She's—she's very pretty."

Utterly in the dark as to why she was dragging out this dead-end topic, I raised an eyebrow and drawled:

"She smells fake."

Abruptly, her previous, inexplicable unhappiness vanished, and she laughed, seeming once more in her element.

"How on earth do you know how she smells?"

"Perfume is a thing both potent and revolting," I said, grimacing slightly at the memory. I had always disliked perfume; it reminded me invariably of my mother, who seemed at times to bathe in the stuff.

"I didn't know Miss Ritchi's appearance and scent was such a matter of concern to you, Gwendolyn," I said, after a moment. Sharp, who'd been smiling to herself for no discernible reason, abruptly flushed again, and did her best to rally the attack.

"It's not! I was simply wondering whether you were human enough to find any woman attractive. I guess I should have known such optimism was absurd."

"I'm glad you're beginning to learn from your mistakes."

She leapt off of the rail at this, a high color in her cheeks and her eyes unusually bright—even for someone as animated as Gwendolyn Sharp. I looked at her for a moment, surprised by the thought, again unbidden, that the Sharp girl was…something. In some lights, she was almost attractive. Almost.

Gwendolyn threw up her hands, exasperated; her temper was exceedingly capricious today.

"You're impossible!" she said, frustrated—and then, pausing for a few moments to look at me, the impossible female suddenly smiled, and, before I could retreat, leant in and—kissed my cheek. Stunned, I stood there, my unfortunate cheek ablaze and my head spinning, unable to formulate any thought whatsoever. It was abruptly very, very hot in the museum.

The—the girl, that Sharp, seemed, for once, properly abashed, and, sneaking a look at me, said, with a confidence that was somewhat put on:

"There. You're impossible, and infuriating, and horribly unfriendly, but I like you anyway."

And quickly, before I could so much as process her words, she turned on her heel and scampered off. I, left standing there dazed and on fire, with one hand stupidly touching my cheek, wondered whether disarming Gwendolyn was always this baffling.

Hello, and thanks to everyone for their wonderful reviews! You fellas have made my day! I hope you enjoy it, and let me know what you think!