She's pretty. If she weren't, it probably wouldn't bother him. No, it would; he is pathetic and must be liked. If he's not, it must be by people hates. So, yes, it bothers him. She is slim, a narrow torso her breasts are large for but she's young and they're firm. Deep eyes, a melodious voice, a wry sense of humor and she moves her arms so gracefully when she walks that when he's walking behind her in the hall he loves to watch her turn corners and watch the way they arc around her body, the hands defining eddies of space in the air.
What happened? he wonders. Things were fine for weeks. She's new, he's not. They chatted, joked. She told him of her high school days as an athlete, when she threw javelins and ran. Then one day, the Loser said his usual hello and ... a one-word answer, face averted. Since then it's been brief, necessary phrases or less. What did he do? Nothing creepy. Not in a sexual way, at least. The Loser, being a loser, is twice the age of most of his coworkers and has never entertained notions of anything beyond workplace friendships. Honest. And she's not angry, exactly, so he can't ask her what he did. That would be uncomfortable for them both.
It's as if she just woke up one morning and decided she disliked the Loser. This terrifies him. What if everyone does that?