I know the whistlers, the hummers, the coin jinglers. I know who consumes too much caffeine. It's made me pretty good with visual cues, too. I can tell if it's a man or a woman coming down the hall by one giveaway clue. When men turn the corner at my desk, they're likely to knock two or three times on the filing cabinet.
Women never do.
I've asked myself many times, after their knocks have once again shattered my writer's reverie. It won't change the world, advance my status in society, entertain guests at cocktail parties, or earn me extra money moonlighting. That Step, it's just me and my telepathic footstep fetish. Or until some novelist discovers me and decides I'm a worthy subject for a manuscript. Meanwhile, I'll just sit here and wait - until I hear Rushdie's footsteps approaching.