There’s a deaf lady at work. At lunch and breaks, she sits alone. On occasion she’ll sit with one other dude (her boyfriend?) who hears but knows sign language. My heart goes out to her every time I see her by herself. I imagined she felt isolated, alone. No one ever made an attempt to communicate with her. So today I decided to introduce myself at the first break. As I sat down she gave me that disgusted scrunchy face look perfected by the fairer sex during the teen years. Then came the dismissive shrug. I had a pen and paper. I wrote, “Hi.” She wrote, “Who you are?” (Yes, that’s what she wrote, I didn’t mangle the grammar by mistake.) I wrote my name and asked hers. She wrote it and then turned away from me and began texting. Let me repeat that. She literally turned her back on me. Then came her dude. Let’s call him God’s Gift because he walks around with a kind of self-righteous, “I know something you don’t” smirk on his face. His nuance screams “Douche Bag!” but I don’t know him well enough to serve judgment (HA! Who am I kidding. Of course I judge him). Through him I tried to tell her I just wanted to say hello and wasn’t trying to intrude etc. She answered with the sign version of “whatever.” She never looked at me and barely looked at God’s Gift. Her face never wavered from a constant engraving of disdain. As God’s Gift translated her answer it gave him the opportunity to launch into a monologue about my shameful inability to speak sign language. Of course, I must learn it provided my feeble intellect can accommodate such knowledge. I nodded and smiled as his pontification gained steam but before he could hit full stride I found a loophole in the conversation and quickly exited stage left. Oh zombie apocalypse, where art thou?