Girl

The quadriplegic man, newly made the head of Advocacy for the local Center for Independent Living, tells me he will have the girl who took the notes at the last meeting e-mail them to me. 

I've called him five times trying to get information on the recently formed action group, that another of his colleagues had suggested I attend.

I had to ask for minutes of the meeting as he seemed unable to say what they discussed or were working on, other than assuring that curb cuts would be shoveled on Market Street, come winter. 

The girl? i repeat with a question in my voice, is she a teenager interning there? I ask. 

No, he says, i've known her for years.
Then I don't think she's a girl!, i say and sigh, 
and he repeats that he's known her for a long time as if this is either excuse or explanation. 

Embarrassed, he repeats everything he's just told me,
twice,but faster, brighter as if to erase the bad vibe he has left. 

Nevermind his postion, Advocacy, or that his organization just had a week-long retreat where everyone was trained in some sort of sensitivity or client outreach. 
Or, heaven forfend, that his own unique challenges might make him acutely aware of such diminutions. 

No, he was still a male and the female, who could both take notes and transmit the information 
was a "girl".