Butch and Butcher

"PIIIIINK!"

Quom, fifth horseman of the apocalypse, comes barreling across the office with a pink collared shirt in her thick hands.  She stops in the vicinity of my workstation and rubs her crew cut vigorously, staring down the room.  Quom yells when she's mad.  She yells when she's happy.  She yells when she's describing what she had for lunch.  She would have made an excellent Viking.

"PIIIINK!  你们看这件PINK的衬衫。谁敢穿?  举手!"
"PIIIINK!  JUST LOOK AT THIS PINK SHIRT.  WHO WILL WEAR IT?  HANDS UP!"

Her voice pierces the entire floor of forty silent apparel buyers, half of whom report to her.  The seasoned among them pay her no heed.

"HOW ABOUT YOU PIERRE," she yells, singling out my unfortunate neighbor.  "ARE YOU A PINK MAN?"

Pierre giggles deferentially like a mewly-eyed schoolgirl before a pop star.  Tee hee.  Tee hee hee.  Quom contemplates him menacingly like a disgruntled silverback before sauntering over to my desk.

"你呢，MAX.  你穿不穿PINK? 说!"
"YOU, MAX.  DO YOU WEAR PINK OR NOT?  SPEAK!"

"Umm… sometimes?"

She turns to face the room.

"PIIIIIIIIIIINK!" she bellows, pointing at me with one hand and energetically waggling the shirt with the other.

A few tense seconds pass.  Quom snatches the used umbrella casing on my desk and hands it to me.

"脏!"
"DIRTY!"

I toss it in the trash and she gives me a reckless smile before moseying back from whence she came.

I love you Quom.  Will you marry me?