She had little regard for his position, for his commitment to the customer service vision, for his stupid business diploma. Just a bag of hot air, she said, to anyone in earshot. The big blowhard was pushing for a job at head office, she said, climbing the corporate ladder on everyone’s backs. Secretly, she stood close to him during their morning meetings to smell the nicotine on his skin, the smell of her father. She accused him of cutting her hours, of shorting her cheques, of stealing her lunch. He raised his palms like a supplicant and asked if they could take their battles to the pool hall. Blonde laughed at him and went with him and hung her cleavage like a dare over the deep green felt. She never got good at the game, but when they played doubles, she created an amusing-enough distraction that was sometimes sufficient for them to win. Theirs was an uneasy alliance, filled with defenses and imagined slights. He didn’t want to be her boyfriend because it violated staff policy.
