Years ago, I worked at a department store. My manager (technically an assistant manager) was this girl named Stacey. We’d flirt pretty much daily, not because we were especially attracted to each other but because it helped fill our shifts.
For reference, Stacey is pretty close to your classic punk rock chick. Short, pink hair, lots of piercings & tattoos. Almost my height, but very petite; she had this tiny waist and toned stomach that used to drive me crazy.
Stacey had a girlfriend, but would drop hints all the time that she’d be open to straying. We’d be killing time at the end of a shift and she’d ask something like, “Would you cheat, if it was guaranteed you wouldn’t get caught?” She wasn’t blatant about it, but she wasn’t especially vague either.
One night, before close, I told her I had a date. It seemed to flip a switch inside her. “You should come over, when it’s done. Tell me about it.” We’d only ever hung out twice outside of work, and that was with other people around. But I agreed. And at the end of a ho-hum first date, I ended up at her place.