The break room was smoky and filled with black formica-topped tables and yellow plastic chairs, and for a while she took her lunch there, bringing her schoolbooks with her and reading chapters for class while she ate. There was a soda machine, a coffee urn, and a large round wall clock identical to the one in the room where she worked. The other women from the typing pool pushed the tables together in groups of two or three and talked incessantly, and none of them ever acknowledged Teresa other than the occasional nod when she first came in, though they sometimes looked her way and lowered their voices. They were better dressed than she was: they had outfits—skirts that matched jackets, shoes that matched purses. They talked about her, and it was flattering at first because she imagined they were calling her “brainy” or “bookish.” Then she heard one of them say “Mr. Hardy” before the voice dropped to a whisper.

She started taking her lunch outside. There were pebbled concrete benches on the strip of grass between the building and the parking lot, and she chose one and ate her sandwich with her art history book open across her lap. When a shadow fell over the page one afternoon, she knew before looking up that it was David Hardy, that he’d noticed she was no longer eating in the break room and that he’d come looking for her. He was holding his manila folder out for her to see. “What do you think?” One of his doodles was circled and indicated by a large arrow. It was a cartoon version of her, on the bench, holding her book and biting into her sandwich.

“You made me a mouse,” she observed.

“That I did. Round ears, black nose. And this is your tail coming out behind the bench. I’m always drawing mice.”

“You’ve been watching me eat?”

“I drew this as I was walking up the sidewalk. I do it fast, like the pros.”

She dropped her eyes from his face to the drawing again. Her mousy backside looked a little large.

“Disney, Warner Bros.,” he said, as if she’d asked which pros. “The big boys. I was going to be an animator before I discovered the true joys of the auto insurance business. Mind if I sit down?”

She scooted over and he sat. Immediately he slouched his back and dropped his hands into his lap, his long legs stretched out in front of him and his feet resting on the heels of his brown shoes. He was staring hard across the parking lot and he narrowed his eyes, letting her study his profile; then he reached into his suit coat for his cigarettes. She caught the scent of butane from his lighter. “I hope I’m not bothering you,” he said.

“You’re not. I’m just eating.”

“And reading.” He tilted his head toward the book. “What is that?”