You sit down opposite them in the break room. The bookworm doesn’t flinch. They figure you just sat there because you didn’t want to sit with the girls from the make-up counters. They understand that. They don’t want to sit there either. Those girls are scary.
The bookworm doesn’t look up. They’re reading, and you don’t know each other, after all.
“Is that a good book?” you ask.
“Yeah,” the bookworm smiles so you don’t know that inside their heart just sank to somewhere in the region of their socks. They had this thirty minutes to read before returning downstairs to sell handbags to people who consider politeness as disposable as income. But, they figure, it’s kind of nice to talk about books with strangers. It’s much better than the last person who sat down opposite to tell them about a regrettable one night stand.
“What’s it about?” you ask.
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