Why are you so nice to me?

Why are you so nice to me is a prompt from a writing workshop.

It drove her mad.
‘Can I help you with that?’ he would ask as she struggled with a box of printed reports. And without an answer he would take the box from her and carry it to the shelf she indicated in the storage room.
‘Can I carry those coffees for you?’ And again, with no answer, he would pick up the tray and take it to the meeting room, leaving her to follow with milk and sugar.

At first, she suspected an inappropriate amorous intention, but – for goodness sake – she was a plumpish 57 year old with greying hair and a husband and grown kids, while he was no more than 25 and gorgeous as a god. Every woman in the office ogled him as he walked by the desks, apparently unaware of his impact.

Perhaps she reminded him of his mother, and he was a good boy brought up to respect his elders? That would explain the helping with boxes and coffees.

But then … the day started badly with the alarm not set, the train delayed and her being very late for work, arriving flustered because she had to print the boss’s presentation before the meeting at 9.30 … and then … horror, horror … she couldn’t find the relevant folder on her computer … and the world was ending, right now –

‘Can I help?’ He was there, hovering, charming smile on offer.

She glanced up briefly from moving her mouse hither and thither, frantically dipping into this folder and that, exploring search terms. ‘Lost the presentation,’ she muttered.

‘The one for the big meeting this morning?’ He grimaced.

‘If you can magic it up, I’d be grateful.’ The mouse went this way and that.

‘Did you email it at all?’

Relief flooded her like a storm-sodden drain. ‘Of course!’

Presentation printed and with the boss by 9.20 am, she returned to her desk to find him sitting in her chair.

‘if you log me in,’ he said, ‘I’ll see if I can find the folder for you.’ He gave a self-deprecating smile. ‘Not too bad at the old IT if I say so myself.’

She logged him in and stood by watching him work apparent magic, with all sorts of mysteries flashing across the screen.

‘Why are you so nice to me,’ she asked.

He gave a final click, closed the open screens bar one, where – hallelujah – the lost folder had been restored. He grinned in triumph and vacated her chair.

‘Nice to you?’ He smirked and she startled at the unexpected expression. ‘I needed to get into the system at your level of access,’ he said, ‘do my real job.’

‘Real job?’ A shiver tingled down her spine. Access? Levels?

‘Yep.’ He moved swiftly away, through the desks towards the emergency stairs. ‘My guess is that this hack’ll cost the company something like, hmm, let’s say 300 million quid?’ He waved, opened the door and was gone.

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Find Cheryl’s flash fiction and short stories, including audio versions of some, here.