Pansy Petite stops nervously beside my desk and eyes a precarious stack of papers. “Ms. A.,” she says primly, “Would you like me to clean your desk?”
“Not really,” I answer. “I know it looks messy, but I actually know where everything is.”
She stares at me skeptically for a long moment, then asks. “May I please borrow the special white eraser?”
I open my desk drawer and rifle through it. No eraser. I look up at Pansy. “I’m sorry, Sweetie. Somebody must already have it.”
She nods her head, reaches out and plucks the white eraser from the chaos of my desk. Holding it up for me to see, she chides, “Are you sure I can’t clean your desk? I promise I would keep it very well orgnized.”
“Yes, Dear,” I answered. “I am certain you would, and I find that thought very, very scary.”
“Suit yourself,” she answered while walking away, “But I’m sure my way would be easier.”
Mmmmm — for whom?