"Did you spellcheck it?"

Slouched in the visitor's chair across her desk, I blinked unbelieving, and then my eyes sharpened in her direction.

Her suit was complementary to the color of her eyes, and complimentary to the shape of her in general. Specifically at that moment, however, her shape was a kind of question mark into which she'd curled herself, reading my final report, tentatively turning its pages, clearly out of her element. Such an in-depth experience of the work that she sells seemed to be a thing in which she rarely indulged, and she approached it without confidence. My lips tightened with reflexive annoyance - not only was her spelling question a sign that she knew me not at all, it was a sign that she knew what we were doing not at all. This is the mission critical review I have to go through, and the only question is about spelling? How is this woman helping me?

I understood her nervousness, though, understood her need to ask a question, any question. I have rarely heard the words "delicate problem" so close to the words "million dollar" so often, as in the discussions we had had about this report. It was a difference maker for her. Still, she had to know what kind of work I'd do with the chance - it's not like I'd sought her out, after all.

This all had started with her rounding the blind curve in our office corridor, flashing at me those eyes as I passed through to stop me in my tracks, pointing at me one manicured finger, and saying "I need YOU" in a way that implied some understanding of my capabilities. She knew I was the guy who could navigate all the levels of this problem, including the part where I successfully used (not utilized!) the English language. One would think, here at the final discussion before our recommendations, she'd believe that her handpicked guy had been sufficiently assiduous in his work to spell it all right.

[AS-SID-U-OUS: marked by careful unremitting attention or persistent application. Once spelled with an "E" in place of the initial "A". Result: fifth in the county out of dozens of school champs, sixth grade.]

"The spelling is fine, don't worry about that. I'm a spelling bee guy." A quizzical wrinkle appeared in her forehead - she wouldn't be happy about that, but she was still a little at sea, and signaling for help however she could. "Mom was an English teacher, so I did all the spelling bees growing up."

She and I have worked together on and off for many years; I can't believe she hadn't heard that one before - it's a standard speech of mine. Whether she had or hadn't, she perked up and pursued the topic. Built the relationship, made it personal. I recognized that as a standard of hers; we've worked together on and off for many years. She responded:

"I did spelling bees, too. In the third grade, I was so proud of how I did in our class's spelling bee. At the end, the only one who beat me was Amanda Pantalones, and she was always one of the smart girls..."

She had the name right, and spoke it with confidence. For me, it leaked immediately from my brain; I've reproduced it here based mostly on the name they're all using this summer. I spent my childhood studying for spelling bees, thinking that if I ever learned all the words, I would know everything, could do anything. It never occurred to me then that the name of a particular person would be remotely as important as spelling "syzygy" or "arthropod" or "flaunt". Somehow I never developed a knack for names. I don't know why they don't register.

Part of what kept Amanda's name from registering, perhaps, just then, was how deeply aghast I was at what my partner was telling me. The moment before we go out together to be professionally impressive is not the moment to say to me that you've been finishing behind the smart kids since you were eight.

Some amount of that reaction must have shown on my face; at least, she seemed to pick up on something that made her curl in on herself just slightly farther, her eyes again scanning her copy of the report for anything she could make conversation about. I realized how badly that all had gone a few moments later, that I'd taken some starch out of my partner in what it was we were about to do. I promptly set my mouth to moving again, trying to find some way to make it right.

"Oh, I did so many spelling bees. The worst one was the county championship when I was in eighth grade. All the school champs went to the local high school at lunchtime one day for the competition, so the high school radio station would have something to broadcast. Before I left, my principal pulled me aside and said she'd have the broadcast playing in the cafeteria while my classmates were eating. So to me, being thirteen, that meant that, y'know, all the girls I kind of wanted to kiss me would have to be listening. So I was freaking out. Of course, it came down to just me and this other smart kid, and we went back and forth forever, me thinking the whole time about the girls that were listening..."

My voice trailed off as I glanced back across the desk at her, to see how she was hearing the story. I found her suddenly uncurled, shoulders squared and spine straight, in a perfectly practiced posture for picking out particulars. The instant the conversation became about details of how people act, she was back in the world where knowing the names, building the relationship, was the key issue. Immediately, my partner was back on her game.

I think I stopped completely for a second, as I realized how she resembled that one girl in eighth grade... The gift for hearing people, putting them at ease; arousing their generosity, getting what she wanted. I saw it there in her, all the more clearly for remembering that girl who never kissed me: I saw that skill I always needed but could never muster, that touch that made one's enthusiasms contagious, that name-knowing, need-hearing thing that seals the deals.

[CON-TA-GIOUS: communicable by contact; exciting similar emotions or conduct in others. Once spelled with an "E" in place of the "I", at the end of a lengthy lunch without lunch. Result: second in that county out of dozens of different school champs, eighth grade. Those fucking schwas, they get me every time.]

She nodded for me to continue what I was saying; I'm not sure which one of us started the smile that we shared. She laid the report on her desk as she did, and began to pack to leave - somehow the question of how we were going to help each other, and how well, had settled as we spoke, essentially, of nothing. Review time was over. I sat straight up myself, and gestured toward the report as I spoke:

"So yeah, my spelling should be fine there, it usually takes me longer than that to miss a word. You're thinking it's time for us to go do this?"

Her affirmative answer was confident, and enthusiastic, and that other thing - so naturally I stood immediately and followed her out.

In our meeting, we handed the discussion back and forth seamlessly. It was my voice that outlined the situation our potential client faced, the delicacies of the details; her voice wove in references to common acquaintances, asserted similarities between the situations, assured our audience that we would produce results as splendid for them as well. I listened to her and enjoyed her words, the confidence they projected, the way the audience physically leaned toward her as she outlined ways they could give us absurd quantities of money to do the work we wanted.

It was a splendid meeting, and we both glowed after our own fashion on our way back to the offices, where we went our separate ways with just a quick "thank you" batted back and forth. I was unsurprised to hear some days later that we had made the sale. I thought that she and I, using our gifts together, made the perfect case.

They sent me out alone to do the work, of course, and so of course I'm now learning all the words of a new place. After all, they did send me, and that's what I do... I'm sure that everyone's confident.

Anyway, I swear, I'm still prolific, just not here. Bear with me; it'll come back around to this place again, I'm confident.