On the day after Valentine's Day, Michael had given up all hope of meeting the woman he had hit it off with so well during the blood donation. She was both charming and had found him charming, a rare combination that haunted him. He had loved the sound of her voice, especially when she was laughing at his jokes, but was increasingly resigned to the likelihood that he'd never hear it again.  After a quiet day spent going through the motions at work, he decided to give himself a break and leave a little early.

As he was making his way out of the building, he passed by the security desk and stopped suddenly with an idea. Hank was leaning back in his chair reading the sports section of the Scranton Times. Michael gave him a little wave and a smile and tapped on the desk as he gathered his thoughts quickly.

“Hey, Hank” he said, finding the the lost glove in a jacket pocket and holding it up.  “You don’t by any chance know who this belongs to, do you?”

Hank leaned his large frame forward to get a good look. “Nope,” he said with certainty.

“Ah, thanks anyway.”

"Just a moment." Hank stood up to get a closer view of the glove and scratched his chin.  “If it’s lost though,” he said. “I can hold onto it for a while in case someone asks about it. If you want me to. Where did you find it?”

“In the blood van yesterday. The lady before you left it,” said Michael. She said I was cute, he almost added.

“Hmm, well I know who that is as a matter of fact. She works nearby. I’ll give it back to her for you.”

Michael’s eyes lit up at the unexpected connection, a link between him and his missing Cinderella. He was desperate to know more. “Wow, that’s great. Could you tell me her name?”

“Hmm.” Hank seemed to ponder this.

“And how pretty she is? I didn’t get a good look. Also, her bust, her bosomy region, if you could -”

“I can’t give out names like that. It’s a grey area and I’m going to play it safe.”  The security guard looked at the glove again and at Michael’s childlike eyes filled with hope. “But if you leave me a business card I can give that to her.”

Michael rummaged through his pockets and pulled out a card fast. His work number was already on it and he took a pen off Hank’s desk and added his personal cell phone number and “Call me! Important! 911 type important!” on the back.  He resisted the temptation to draw a little sparrow and handed it over to Hank, still scarcely believing his luck.

“Thanks, Hank. You’re a good man.”

*****

After Michael left, Hank sat down and tried to go back to reading his sports section but couldn’t get into it. He was dogged by memories of the last time he’d tried to help Michael. It had only been a few months since that day when, after relentless pleading by the Dunder Mifflin manager and against his better judgment, he had left his security post and gone upstairs to help solve a petty dispute. He’d carefully weighed the pros and cons of getting new office chairs against getting a new copier as he was asked to.

And how had he been treated? Dismissed and ignored for taking a little longer than Michael had preferred, for not being as quick and decisive as his highness wanted. It had been annoying and embarrassing to Hank, the kind of small slight he couldn’t really say or do much about but which had stung and stayed with him.

He took the business card out of his shirt pocket again and looked it over. He then ripped it up into as many small pieces as he could and threw them aside. “Well, screw that,” he said, and went back to reading his paper.