Do Not Go There
The guy drew a sort of broad arch across the whiteboard, in red. It reminded her of the guy's eyebrows. Pencil-thin... well, thick pencil, but still on the thin side. Oddly perfect. She recalled reading somewhere that people generally favored faces with slight asymmetries and imperfections. It was quite possible that she had read that in Cosmo, and had read something in the same magazine the next week, or a few weeks down the line, claiming the opposite. She couldn't quite remember. And she was missing what the guy was saying, completely.
"So this is what our projected goals look like. Sort of arch-y, and broad-reaching, almost elliptical, if I drew the other half, and well, red." He pointed and arched his own eyebrows out at the crowd, which consisted of one slightly bored secretary, who, she knew, was playing on his Nintendo Game Boy (or something along those lines) underneath the table, failing to be discreet in the least, and herself, the only project manager not astute enough to duck out of the meeting by planning something else entirely for the time during which this meeting was scheduled. Gym, his name was really Gym, spelled that way, was a nice enough guy, just not the sort of guy you wanted to be trapped in a conference room with while he presented... whatever he was presenting, and no backup whatsoever. "Any questions so far?" He waved the red marker around a little bit between the two of them.
She shook her head. The secretary shifted in such a way that it might have suggested he shook his head. He also may have just been shifting after losing a ship. Or because his eyes were doing that thing they did when you played too much Tetris.
"Good. Now, what I like to see, burgeoning out of, as it were, our goals, is a few of these things," Gym continued, pausing and picking up a blue marker, fussing with the cap, which stubbornly clung to the marker, "these things..." He got the cap off and squiggled a little something in the vicinity of the red arch that looked so much like one of his eyebrows. "They look sort of tornado-y, I suppose. Which is good, because they're ideas, which are kind of like little tornadoes in and of themselves! Tornado! Tornado!"
At this even the secretary looked up. Gym touched up one of the tornadoes, giving it a little extra body on the left side. Susan hadn't noticed it lacking anything on that side, but, then, she never had quite the artistic eye. She felt like she was watching one of those painting television shows, where the man talks in very calm, even tones, and dabs in such a lackadaisical, loving manner that you almost forget they're only dealing with a half an hour or so of their time to get all these little touch-ups and 'just a dab here, some bushes here, a tree, the V birds against the clouds.' Maybe this was how they got those jobs; they moved from holding meetings of tens of people to meetings of two people to the television studio, painting away rural and rustic scenes, talking in calm, even tones, possibly with the aid of a pill or two that will do that to you. Gym laughed his cartoonish laugh to himself and turned to his captive audience.
Or maybe it was people like her, who sat in those meetings for too long, who turned out in front of the television, doped up, paintbrush in hand, mock-paint-stained smock and funny looking hat on, painting as if there was nothing else in the world worth doing. And perhaps, at that stage, that was so very, very right.
Summary
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