She is my techie chick, and I but a lowly content developer.

She grasps the greater realities and commands electrons like a sorceress on a crag above the foam-topped heavings of an information sea. She does not snicker when somebody says WAN.

I see her pale under the fluorescence of the workday, hair tied back with a rubber band. Many things beep or jingle that hang from her belt like the fruit on the richest vine of the internet--she knows what clicks and chirps behind locked doors I'd never dare approach. Her T-shirt is too big.

She knows where the needle-nosed pliers are kept.

Some say she's weird, but she knows what FTP stands for and speaks fluent Unix in all its dialects. She is my techie chick; while I strike adjectives and ponder the relevance of some writer's opinions, she thinks in code and solves puzzles that I could never see clearly enough to recognize as mere puzzles.

She is my techie chick, and I but a lowly content developer. Some day I'll have the courage to bring her her noontime coffee and ask her to the movies.

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