Matchmaker

By Kirsten Anderson

Marissa had not slept for a month.

Instead of meeting the angel of sleep, she found the demon of insomnia. It perched on the edge of her bed and whispered dark tales of woe as the clock ticked forward into the empty hours.

During the day, she performed her job in a somnambulistic state, staring with heavy-lidded eyes at spreadsheets that did not add up while her two coworkers chatted about their weekend plans.

Dana noticed Marissa's silence. "What's wrong?" she asked. "You look terrible."

"I'm all right," muttered Marissa. "Just not sleeping too well."

"Sorry, I shouldn't criticize. With three kids, two ex-husbands, and four dogs, I'm a little worse for the wear myself." Dana punctuated her self-analysis with a warm laugh. "You should pop a coupla Tylenol PMs. They do the trick for me."

"Working under this new management would make even Rip Van Winkle loose sleep," grumbled Lindsey. "Did you see the latest memo? No more casual Fridays. Seems that Tammy mooned a client when she wore those low-riders."

Marissa shifted in her seat, sighing at the way her skirt cut into her waist and regretted her attempt to wedge herself into a size twelve. "Great. I wanted to wear my comfortable jeans."

"And I wanted to wear my 'I'd Rather be Riding a Harley' t-shirt," said a man's voice.

Marissa looked up and saw Ron from technical support. As usual, his attempt to look professional fell short of the corporate ideal: a shoelace sneaked out from under a baggy pants cuff, his button down shirt had untucked itself, and the edges of his dark blond hair reached his collar."

Thanks for fixing my T1 connection, Ron," said Lindsey. "Now I can go back to shopping online."

"That's what I do, fix things," he replied with a slight incline of his head. He turned to Marissa. "So, coming to the company picnic next Friday? I'm bringing cookies baked by elves under a tight quota."

Warmth came to her cheeks. "Sure. I'll bring a beef casserole."

"I hope so. I'm surrounded by vegetarians down in tech. Bored with the lot of them." As Ron turned to leave, Marissa noticed the dark outlines of tattoos under his white shirt.

When he was out of earshot, Dana elbowed Marissa. "He likes you."

"Yeah, but not my type. He rides a motorcycle. And did you see the tattoos on his arms?"

"Tattoos? I've seen him in short sleeves, he doesn't have any tattoos," said Lindsey. "The accent is way sexy, though."

Marissa stood up and stretched. "Well, I'm not hooking up with a coworker again, not after that fling with kiss-and-tell Frank. OK, it's 10:00. Time for the coffee run."

At the corner café, she bought three lattés and added a chocolate-filled croissant for herself, hoping the sweet darkness nestled within the flaky crust would wake her. But the pastry tasted like ashes in her mouth. Tears of frustration moistened her eyes. What's wrong with me? she thought as she fumbled through her purse for a tissue.

She glanced out the window at the homeless man who often sat on the bench outside. She did a double-take. Instead of his usual rags and garbage bags, the man wore the simple brown robe and tonsured hair of a medieval monk. On his lap rested a leather-bound book in which he wrote with a feather quill. A blissful smile smoothed his ragged features.

Did a monastery take him in?she wondered.