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looked at me in confusion. So did the man.
    “My tie?” he shrieked back.
    “Yes, your tie!” Silence. “I hate it!”
    The man looked hurt. “You hate my tie?”
    “Yes!” My throat was starting to hurt. “It’s...it’s...” The tie glared at me. “It’s obscene. It’s the wrong color. It’s lewd and suggestive...and I think it’s trying to pick me up.”
    The man looked shocked. The tie looked bored. I looked stupid.
    “Well, okay, I’m going back in,” I said, and did just that.
    The man was silent for a long time. The tie was obviously enraged. It beat against the window, snarling. It made threatening gestures. It danced provocatively around and then shook its finger as if to say, “No no, you can’t touch.” I threw my hands up in exasperation.
    The man, his back still toward me, knocked tentatively on my window. I sighed, climbed back up on my desk, and leaned outside. “Yes?”
    He said something quietly that I couldn’t hear.
    “Come again?”
    “I said, my wife gave it to me.”
    “What?”
    “The tie. The tie! I said that my wife— ex -wife—gave me the blasted tie! I knew it was horrible. It was much too bland. But she gave it to me, so I wore it, and now here I am, ready to greet the pavement, and I’m still wearing this...tie...” Thankfully, a good part of what he said was lost in the wind. The tie, however, looked appalled.
    “So ditch the tie,” I said. My attention was on my leg, which was cramping up.
    He turned his face away and closed his eyes haughtily. “You’re not taking this seriously,”
    I rubbed my knotted calf furiously.
    “Look,” I said. “I work a horrible, soul-crushing job with a lascivious rat for a boss and a glory hound coworker who steals all of my credit. My chair is broken, the “Y” on my keyboard sticks, and all I have to look forward to is some lousy steamed vegetables and a crossword for lunch. I’m sorry that your ex-wife moved on. I’m sorry you’re so distraught over it. I’m especially sorry that you’re so good-looking, single, and obviously so deranged. I have a very busy schedule, and you and your harlot of a tie have put me far behind. Now either jump or crawl back inside because I don’t have the time to be kneeling here hanging out of my office window like this.”
    He was silent, but only for a minute. “What’s your name?”
    “Absinthe.”
    “It fits.”
    “Shut up and jump.”
    “Now that’s not very nice.”
    I gritted my teeth and crawled back into my office, vowing not to speak again until I was identifying his body to the policemen downstairs. I slid off of my desk and hopped around on my leg to ease the cramping, cursing colorfully in my head while I did so.
    The blond man was watching me. I looked resolutely away and pretended not to care. His tie was equally enamored with my performance. I hopped around a few more times and then sank gracefully into my chair as though nothing had happened.
    All of the hopping and crawling and hanging out of the window had forced my hair from its careful, neat-yet-not-prim updo into a crazy mass of curls that hung in my face. I blew them out of my eyes and began typing. Ignoring the crazy man, of course—
    Who had turned around completely so that he was facing the window with his palms pressed against the glass. Not that I was looking. Because I wasn’t.
    I stared hard at my reports. Something about the Traevoli case wasn’t fitting together, and I gnawed nervously on my pen as I tried to figure it out. Oh! I think I know where I saw this before. I dragged my heavy briefcase onto my lap and snapped it open. Digging around, I finally pulled out a paper with a ring of coffee and a lipstick smudge on the top. Hey, when you gotta blot, you gotta blot, okay? One day I’ll keep wonderful, immaculate files. I just know it.
    Holding the paper up to the screen, I squinted at it for a while until I came to the source of the problem. Ugh, that’s it. I must have mistyped it while