City Boy by Jean Thompson Page B

writing, the ghastliness of it. Chloe didn’t need to hear such talk. This was her time to unwind, crow, complain about her job, even if it left him feeling a little dull and housewifely by comparison. “So how many million dollars did the bank make today?”
    “I’m not going to tell you, you’ll just go off on your corporate-greed thing.”
    “I can’t afford to anymore. A corporation pays my rent.”
    Chloe reached across the table and speared a forkful of Jack’s prawns with basil. “You know what? I think I’m not bad at this stuff. Business. It’s like a board game you play with real money. I never thought I’d be good at it, I just didn’t want to be another bright girl who couldn’t get a job. But I’m actually doing okay. You should see some of these guys who think I’m only somebody to hit on when I clean their clocks in a review.”
    “What guys hitting on you, exactly?”
    “‘Hitting’s’ probably too strong a term. I misspoke.”
    “Chloe.”
    “Forget I said it. Delete. No biggie.” Chloe took another gulp of wine and smiled in a way Jack imagined she’d been practicing since childhood. By now he’d seen it often enough to be skeptical.
    “Which guys.”
    She sighed, the alcohol making her elaborately patient. “Once in a while one of the suit boys gets an idea. That’s all.”
    “What do you mean ‘an idea,’ are we talking flirtation or assault here? What do they do?”
    “Oh you know perfectly well the kinds of things men do. Skip it. I can handle it. Women have to everywhere, it’s not just me.”
    “Then you should file a complaint or something.”
    “Wrong wrong wrong. That is so naive. Then you’re poison. Then you’re a whiny bitch. Not a team player.”
    “Then what you’re saying is, workplace-harassment laws are only good against men you don’t work with.”
    “Yeah, pretty much. Sucks.”
    “That’s ridiculous. Somebody’s molesting you and you can’t—”
    “‘Molesting.’ Oh boy. You’re really getting off on this. Next you’ll probably ask me if I enjoy it.”
    Jack stared. Chloe stared back, flat and challenging. He said, “Whoa, I only said—”
    “See, I can’t talk about stuff like that with you because you immediately make these
assumptions
.”
    “Well that was a pretty big one right there. Did I ask you that? Did I even mention the word ‘enjoy’?”
    “No, but I detected this little proprietary—this little, I don’t know, nasty curiosity.”
    “This whole thing is stupid. You can’t drink, you never could.”
    It was the wrong thing to say. It was how their arguments started, with words getting off track, then the tracks going haywire, looping and doubling back, ending up somewhere that shocked you with its ugliness.They didn’t argue often, but Jack could remember every time.He hated their fights, hated being different people who no longer liked each other.
    Chloe reached for the wine, poured another sloshing glass and set the bottle down with a thump.
    Jack said, “All right. Great. Drink as much as you want.”
    “You think this is about me drinking?”
    He did, but it seemed unwise to say so. Drinking gave every argument that extra, snarky edge. “I’m sorry I made you talk about things you didn’t want to. I just don’t believe you should have to deal with a bunch of crap at work. It’s a bank, for God’s sake, not a garage. Are you gonna keep being mad?”
    “Let’s just watch the stupid movie, all right?”
    They cleared away the dinner plates and settled in on the couch. Jack had picked the videos:
Mission: Impossible
and
American Beauty
. He asked Chloe which one she wanted to watch and she shrugged and said it didn’t matter, she’d seen them both. At least she’d stopped drinking, probably to demonstrate to him that she was indifferent to it. She looked muzzy and glowering and still spoiling for a fight. He put on
Mission: Impossible
, figuring that shallow and unreal was better right now than dark