Coal for minors.

Today at work: Ukrainian man, 41, says to me, "Young girls are naughty!"

He proclaims this bit of experiential (?) wisdom at an awkward stop in our friendly conversation. We are alone in the room. I am turned toward the fume hood, holding some scissors and my breath; he is clutching at some plastic sealant tape and his remaining shreds of dignity.

What's even better is that he repeats the line twice; the first time I don't quite catch (or believe) what he's said: -- "Pardon? What's not 'E'?"

I think that maybe he is talking about some physics equation I've missed, or maybe some cool new tissue culture lingo the gang'd discussed at Friday's morning meeting that I'd skipped: "Sonya, that's not 'E'. Like, that's not kosher in the lab. Stop drinking the ethanol."

Seconds before, we had been talking easily about life goals and happiness and doctors and his ichthyology toxicology Master's Thesis and hiking to see mountain views. Now we are dancing around teetering mountains of titular flesh. I want to laugh but the tension (all in my mind) is too good to relieve just yet. I want to drag this out, because it's a Tuesday and I've been sitting in a small room transferring exacum for 4 hours straight, listening to country radio (country radio every day at work -- I swear that explains why I had the idea of 'move to Calgary' implanted in my brain). So I sit and drag out the silence..

And I sit, drawing this out. The silence draws more attention to the last words uttered. I love this. I am naughty. I feel a bit evil, as though I am neglecting my duty to bail out a fallen comrade. Yes, he's gone overboard; but I can throw him a lifeline and risk going over myself, to level the playing field -- reveal something about myself to balance this vulnerable little friendship we have forged out of wood. Hard, smooth wood. Ew, I am stopping now. I made reference to wood simply as a device to illustrate that our friendship is an organic, growing relationship that contours 'round obstacles and absorbs barbed wire fence. No, not exactly. I don't remember where I am going with this.

I sit some more and continue my delicate transfers, my smile cracking wider and faster than my calm exterior. I think to myself that perhaps at any moment he will jump the desk and take me Casanova style, right there amongst the plant media and sterilized forceps. But, alas! I mean, Thank God! No, he does not. He laughs, embarrassed for saying something usually reserved for an intimate friend or drinking buddy -- not for a casual co-worker with stylin' 80s-esqe holes in back of jeans.

I revel in the theoretical embarrassment that this situation brings (to people other than ourselves; we are too cool and lacking in pretense to get caught up in protocol and appropriate lab subject matter -- heck, we talk about immigration policy in the midst of an international university, for frik's sake). I wonder whether he is awaiting some thoughtful response from me (shall I agree? "Yes, young girls are naughty.. wink wink.").

Maybe I'll say something to ease his racing mind. Maybe I'll play it off, because it's not a big deal. Maybe I'll make it a big deal, because again, it's a Tuesday and I'm amusing myself at the expense of another. Hehe, no. But what is an appropriate response to such an assertion? -- "Excuse me, but could you please clarify? Do you mean, naughty, as opposed to nice? Or naughty, as in kinky kink-kink?" I sit and bite my tongue. Really, no good can come of this.

And no good comes of this. I look up at his face, my eyes searching for guidance. My expression is questioning, but I can tell that I suck at conveying the facial expression of 'questioning', and I instead appear only to be in love with him. Damnit. And then I come home and write this in my blog, and hug my pillow and listen to Dion & the Belmonts.