“But…I don’t work here, sorry.”
“You don’t?”
“No.”
Mr Hawthorne gives me a withering, up and down look. The type that if a guy did it in a bar you’d splash him in the face with a drink. Only he’s too frail to even pretend to push back against.
Except he just keeps talking. “Is it your day off? Is that why are you dressed so badly?”
I blink a couple of times. Is he for real? “Excuse me?”
“And your hair needs a cut if you’re to work hygienically.”
I laugh. A full belly laugh that makes my mad, huge hair wobble some more.
“There is nothing funny about not looking your best,” he tuts.
“I wasn’t planning to be seen. I just wanted something to read. Clear my head a little.”
He taps the spine of his book against mine. “Ah. Then in that case we match.”
“We do match. We’re both very badl
