Kari was sitting with her fabulous legs tucked under her and her arm resting along the back of the couch behind me. Isobel and her husband were sitting upright, feet on the floor, at opposite ends of their couch. It was like something out of a Jane Austen novel.We live in the DC area and so it is natural to talk politics. I’m a nerd, so politics doesn’t interest me. But Kari works for a lobbying firm and of course her friends were slightly more political than Karl Marx himself.They were arguing about what had to be done to stop the government’s unwarranted intrusion into people’s lives. Like a lot of the Foggy Bottom types, her husband was a bleeding-heart. And Isobel was more Libertarian than Thoreau; with as much naive political idealism as Woodrow Wilson sprinkled on top.That was especially true when it came to the concept of personal privacy. The very idea that the government was monitoring the cell traffic of private citizens enraged her. I refrained from telling her about NSA’s. I called it that to excuse myself. In reality I was watching more videos and reading stories on various websites and I admit that it was beginning to get me excited.When Monday came around Sherri greeted me with a grin and a cheery “Hi” which I took as a good sign. Throughout the morning, though, I noticed that she was squirming a little on her chair as though she couldn’t get comfortable. In the end I could stand it no longer and leaned across and asked her about it.“Did you get punished again over the weekend?” I asked in as quiet a voice as I could manage. She blushed and gave me the smallest of nods. That explained why she was being so fidgety. What she said next shocked and surprised me and, as it turned out, changed things forever.“I need to put some ointment on,” she whispered, not daring to look up, “will you come and give me a hand?”It was difficult to control my feelings in the middle of a busy office, but I somehow managed it. She seemed about ready to burst into tears, so.
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