Chapter
One
Ewan
The break room is too crowded for me. There’s one other person in here besides me, and they’re feeling chatty.
“Plans for the weekend?”
I slurp my cup of noodles. “Nah.”
Debbie, who works on the refiner machine, asks a lot of questions. I usually try to take my lunch break at odd times to avoid nosy people like this one.
But Debbie, who’s relatively new here, seems to have timed her breaks to overlap with mine.
She chuckles and says, “You always say that. I bet your wife gives you a honey-do list a mile long.”
I cut my eyes at her, and she’s glancing at my naked ring finger.
“Nope.”
“Well, if your wife doesn’t mind, why don’t you come out for drinks with me and the girls?”
She does this kind of thing. Debbie asks questions with a sideways angle that sounds innocent at first. But she’s trying to pry information out of me.
My wife would have no say in the matter because she doesn’t know where I am.
I know. It sounds bad. I might be a garbage husband. But if it makes you feel any better, I’m also fucking miserable.
But that doesn’t change the fact that I have no desire to go out with Debbie and her friends.
“Thanks for the offer, but no,” I reply.
Again, she laughs her dry, strange laugh. “You’re a tough nut to crack. Do you know that, Ewan?”
I bristle at the way she says my name. “Just call me Hayes,” I say.
That’s my last name, and it’s right there on my patch. The boss lets us put whatever we want on our work shirt patches, as long as it’s not vulgar. Lots of people go by their nicknames. And nobody really cares. But it seems like Debbie has been asking around and found out my first name. For what reason, I can’t imagine.
I say nothing else and eat my noodles. She’s finished her salad and has just been sitting here yapping while I’m trying to mind my own business. And if I’m not mistaken, she’s about five minutes late to go back to her shift.
“Well, if you change your mind, you can always come out with us. Or, you know, bring your wife, I guess.”
Another voice cuts across the room. “Debbie, you’re supposed to be on the refiner.”
In the doorway stands the floor boss, Clover.
She’s glaring at Debbie. Debbie gets the message, packs up her shit and scoots back out to the floor.
“Pops says he wants a word,” the floor manager says, turning her attention to me.
“I was fending Debbie off just fine, but thanks.”
Clover smiles. “I know. But Pops still wants to talk to you about something. Don’t ask me what, because I don’t know.”
I ditch the rest of my lunch in the trash.
Most days, I’m not that hungry. Or I choose to appreciate the pangs, because it lets me feel something other than the barren wasteland of my emotions.
