Love in an Intel bunny suit

BABS LOWERED HER eyes modestly as I gazed in rapture at her in her oh-so-cute Intel bunny suit in Fab 11X. I shuddered as I gingerly held my 12-inch wafer, knowing that my Rio Rancho bosses would never forgive me if my yields ramped down.

I screamed sweet nothings in her ears, down in one of the chases, trying to drown out the sounds of fluoridation, splashing water, and the other humdrum sounds of the clean room.

She was dressed in the purest white bunny suit, unlike the plumbers, electricians and engineers who slobbed around the clean room in their patchwork suits, stained and patched with dangerous fluids, unlike my dear cherie amour.

"Will you marry me Babs?" I tapped out on the OpenVMS workstation I used for my workaday drudgery down in the fab.

"Dear Augusto," she said. "Dearest Spinola. I can never be yours. Haven't you read page four of the document 'Employees and the Workplace Environment', which clearly says romantic and sexual relationships between managers and subordinates can damage workgroup morale?"

I bit hard into my mask, stifling bitter tears, and knowing now that my dear Babs would never become Mrs Babs Spinola. Failing to raise the issue, or continuing to maintain the relationship, would be sure to result in disciplinary action, and possibly termination.

I turned away, stricken, fiddling with my 90 nanometre gauge. Would love conquer these obstacles, or would we be confined forever to these muffled exchanges in some dingy alleyway? µ

[To be continued]