For the past few months I’ve been working as an assistant manager at a retail clothing store in the mall. I won’t say which store, but it caters to teenagers and twenty-somethings and has obnoxiously large photospreads of waify models falling all over one another on the walls, and a too-loud playlist heavy on dubstep with some neo-folk sprinkled in for good measure. Working there is usually boring as hell and the pay sucks, but at least all my female co-workers are really hot.
Until very recently they were also way off-limits, not only because we have a draconian personnel manual that makes dating a co-worker about as fun as being a crackhead on parole, but because I genuinely wanted to be professional. Most of these girls had enough creeps in their lives, including the preening college jerks who came in bunches and the middle-aged men who sauntered through, sometimes with adolescent daughters and sometimes alone, always spending more time browsing the merchants rather than the merchandise.