I rolled my eyes and turned back to my locker. ‘Hope you enjoyed the show,’ I said, looking for my lighter, wishing my bag wasn’t so full of … everything.

Tampons. An unopened electricity bill. A balled-up t-shirt. A single green sock, not my size. I stared at it for a minute, trying to figure out how I’d ended up with a single man-sized green sock, printed to look like a lumpy, muscular foot. It was dusty grey on the sole, like it’d had a twin and an owner and life experiences before it had ended up in my handbag.

A pull on my shoulder dragged me back in to the present, followed by a snap and a sting. I jumped, and Dex laughed. He’d flicked my bra strap.

‘The purple one’s my favourite,’ he said, walking away.

‘Piss off.’ I turned around and threw the sock at the back of his head. ‘And don’t call me Winona.’

He snickered, halfway out of the room. ‘You used to love it.’

I shook my head in disgust and turned back to my locker, unable to believe I’d ever found him charming.

The first time he’d called me Winona was about fifteen minutes into my first shift. My hair was short then, and it had taken me a moment to figure out who he was talking to. When I’d corrected him, he’d grinned, like it was a joke, and the next time I walked by the kitchen he called me Winona again.

He does it to everyone, Nic, my boss, said when I asked him about it later. It’s part of his whole … thing.

What thing?

You know—he sighed—bad boy rock star chef. He gave the contestants on MasterChef stupid nicknames too.

He was on MasterChef?

Guest judge.

I raised an eyebrow, and Nic laughed.

Just play along, he said. He gets bored eventually.

I had, and so had he, but not until it was too late.

I found my lighter and my tobacco, and went out to the makeshift staff smoking area in the back laneway. It was filthy and loud, with a few upturned milk crates and a half-dead pot plant, surrounded by bins and air-conditioning units and piles of flattened cardboard boxes, crawling with cockroaches. The bins were full, more than full, black garbage bags pushing over the tops and a couple just thrown onto the lid in defeat. The sun had been baking them all morning, and the stench made my eyes hurt and my throat tighten, my cheeks pulling into my teeth involuntarily. The pizza place across the lane had left one of their bags on the ground overnight and it had been torn open by a cat or a rat or a vagrant, the contents spilling out onto the concrete, blackening lettuce and burst tomatoes and something that used to be ham.