eight

It may be the worst mistake I have ever made, but I hand in the letter anyway.

When I give the letter to my boss he sighs and gives me the pissed off look he always gives me, in any situation. I look at his balding head. There’s a line where his hair once reached. It’s like someone has torn it right off and just slapped some sliced meat in its place.

He tells me I have to give four weeks notice, but I have the next week off because of my concussion. So that leaves three weeks before I can leave. He says I have to work these or else he won’t give me a reference. So, now I have a week before I have to go back there; a week before I have to think about dealing with everything I have so far managed to avoid; a free week to start looking for a new job.

When I go to give my notice in I go through the front entrance and go the same way when I leave. This way I avoid the kitchen entirely, minimizing my chances of seeing Mozart or Ant. I picture Mozart looking up at me from his sink and saying ‘hallo.’ I picture Ant making some comment about my breasts being small.