“Can I ask you a question?”

I looked up and saw a woman with a face like a blank screen. She stared at me as if she is hating every second of being next to me.

I recognized the face, and there is nothing more I know about her. We never talked, not even that forced greetings you’re morally obliged to spit out at staff gatherings or, lifts.

I don’t think I have ever seen her have a normal chat with anyone. She was either flirting with managers outside their offices or monotonously boasting about her latest buy in the staffroom.

That’s about all I knew about her. I’ve no idea what she knew about me, and it didn’t matter.

What mattered was the fact that she was actually speaking to me.

The conversation didn’t start with a hello, or excuse me, or any other popular human courtesies. It started with a blunt, flavourless “can I ask you a question?” delivered in a robotic tone and zero expression,

I couldn’t tell if she wanted a favour or thought she was doing me one.

I thought of the best way to respond.

“You just did” felt wrong, and I doubted she’d get the joke anyway. I settled for a nod and an “uh-huh.”

“You know I have an iPad,” she began, and off she went.

For the next 25 seconds, I got an iPadopaedia dump: where she bought it, the price, her reasons. I wasn’t listening. She probably added what she wore that day and the colour and type of card she paid with too.

Selective hearing can be a blessing at times.

Eventually, the bus with a flat tire on an unpaved, puddled road finally came to a halt.

At least, that’s what I thought.

Before I could even exhale, she started again.

The one-way monologue just kept going. I went back to my selective hearing settings, with regular nods activated.

“What do you think?” She finally paused for my response.

I tried to reconstruct the “conversation”

I’d caught “printer” and “cable,” so I guessed she wanted to know how to print from an iPad.

“What kind of cable?” I asked. I needed a bit more than two words before leaping to conclusions.

“Data cable,” she said.

“Okaaay,” I said, expecting her to elaborate further.  But instead, I got a death stare.

“So you want to plug your iPad into your printer?” I ventured after a beat. Just a guess, but it seemed the right direction.

“Yes,” she said, pinning me with the same expressionless death stare.

“I don’t think it works like that,” I said, fishing for more details whilst ignoring the glare.

“I want to print from my iPad and the guy at PC World said you can,” she rattled off in one breath like she was reading a film script from memories.

If “the guy at PC World” had told her it was possible, why had she been barking at me for five minutes? I thought.  Perhaps he said yes just to get rid of her death stare.

“For a computer to recognize a printer, it often needs a piece of software —”

“It’s an iPad, not a computer,” she cut in.

Her sarcasm was louder than her voice. It was the first expression I’d seen from her. The death stare is now replaced by a “what an idiot” look.

I ignored it and continued.

“Your iPad is a computer.”

“Is it?” More sarcasm. A pause. More sarcasm. “Where do I download this ‘software,’ then?”

I could hear the quotation marks around the software.

“I don’t know…” I tried to exit the conversation.

“What if you plug the cable into iTunes?” she suggested.

I had no words. I couldn’t figure out, why was she asking me- an idiot?

Annoyance crept in.

“How do you plug a cable into iTunes?” I snapped.

“That’s what I’m asking you,” she snapped back.

I wanted to tear my hair out and bang my head on the table.

I was talking to someone who wanted to plug a physical cable into software and who thought I was the fool.

The sooner I ended this, the better my chances of avoiding violence, I thought.

“Listen,” I said, with a sigh, “I’m not an Apple expert. You need to either go to the Apple Store or call them.”

I hoped that would end it, and she’d either walk away or—imagine—say thank you.

I was wrong again.

“Do you have the number?”

I was about to lose it.

“I don’t own any Apple products,” I said, trying to shake her off. I probably sounded cross, but I didn’t care.

“Can you find it for me?” Turns out she is a stubborn piece of a human too.

“I don’t own any Apple products,” I repeated, even higher pitched.

I’d never met anyone so demanding about free advice. I felt like I was being mugged.

You—yes, you—hand over some advice or else. I don’t care if you know the answer; just say what I want to hear.

I went quiet, hoping she’d leave.

She stood there, clearly expecting me to rummage for the number.

“Look, I’m sorry, but I don’t have it and I can’t look it up right now. Why don’t you check on your break or go to a shop that sells iPads?” I said, semi-calm.

“I went to Dixons; they said I need a cable.”

Back to square one.

I took a deep, invisible, silent sigh.

Why was she even here? Did she want me to pull a cable out of a hat? I wasn’t even wearing a hat.

A brief, awkward pause.

“Why not go to the Apple Store? They’ll help you properly,” I said, just to end the silence.

“Um, that’s too far.”

I had no response to that.

“Then go back to the guy at Dixons or PC World and ask him to show you,” I said, louder than usual. She either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

“Do you think he’ll charge me?” she asked, perfectly calm.

“I don’t know. Go ask him first.”

I pretended to be busy, peering under the table like I’d dropped something.

As I picked up the invisible pen, I looked up.

She was gone.

I let out a long, deep breath. I didn’t care that she left without a thanks or goodbye. I was just glad she was gone.

I thought about it the rest of the day and still couldn’t figure out why she’d come to me. Weird encounter. Massive patience test. I congratulated myself.

I vowed to avoid her at all costs and never answer her questions again.

A few days later, I was hurrying back home for an urgent appointment. I rushed into the lift and pressed my floor button. But then the doors reopened—and there she was again. Likely on her way home or stepping out for a cigarette. My stomach dropped. I considered exiting and taking the stairs instead, but before I could move, she shot me with the same death glare, and spat out those familiar words again:

“Can I ask you a question?”