Miss Label

How’s the weather up there?

Zara had been asked that question so many times it almost didn’t register at that moment.

She looked down – she almost always had to look down – at the man who posed the question. She struggled with an answer. She responded with another question.

How do I see the weather with my head in the clouds? She raised an eyebrow inquisitively, wondering if what she said sounded stupid.

The man was shorter than what she would consider to be average height for a guy. From her vantage point, she could see the balding crown of his head. What’s that supposed to mean? Sounds kinda cryptic, he shrugged, his shoulders looking wider than they really were in his navy business suit jacket.

She was in a bad mood, and really didn’t have time for this all-too-familiar ritual. It’s not supposed to mean anything, she replied, I’m getting a little tired of being asked that question.

He turned red, though she was not sure if it was out of anger or embarrassment. Perhaps both?

I’m just trying to make conversation, he huffed, going on the offensive, Last I checked, that wasn’t a crime.

Look, she smiled, Were you asking because you honestly wanted to make conversation? Or were you trying to flirt with me?

His aggressive posture deflated, his true intentions revealed. She felt bad.

I’m flattered, she lied through her teeth, attempting to diffuse the situation, I just get that all the time, and I really don’t understand why guys just can’t have an actual conversation with me without it becoming sexual.

Hey, it’s not our fault you’re a model, he sputtered.

I’m a forensic scientist, she replied.