Claim

In the tiny room that’s used as a staff canteen in Halden Insurance, you take two Ryvita out for your lunch, snap one in half, then put the bigger half back in your lunchbox. Maura licks the egg mayonnaise that’s spilling out of her sandwich as she watches you slice a tomato. She’ll probably make some comment about you being too thin again. Her dark blonde fringe, sprayed to the last, stands up straight over her forehead, and you can see where the teeth of the comb were pulled through the strands. The rest of her hair is backcombed. She thinks she looks like one of the Bangles or something. The last time she gave you a lift home when it was raining, she played ‘Manic Monday’ and then fast-forwarded the tape to ‘Walk like an Egyptian’, doing the hand actions when she stopped at the traffic lights. Seán, your boss, asked her last week to tone down the hair a bit, look more professional when she’s talking to clients, not that her hair bothered him as such, he’d said, but she had to think of the company image. Most days she slicks her hair back with that wet look gel, but not today, as she’s heading out for drinks after work. Not that he’ll say anything. She’ll probably end up in Club Tempo after. It’s free in for women on Thursdays. Ladies’ Night. She’ll be dying in the morning again.

The kettle shudders on the countertop and clicks just as Seán walks in. His jacket is hanging off him. You don’t know why he always carries a copy of The Irish Times to the canteen each day. He never ends up reading it.

He nods at you, ‘The usual?’

‘Yep. Thanks.’

He puts a teaspoon of coffee