But I stupidly convinced myself that I was too valuable to be one that they’d let go.

How many other heads rolled today, anyway?

Was it just mine?

Oh my God. What if I’m the only one who lost their job?

I blink away the sudden swell of threatening tears, but a few manage to escape. With quick fingers, I fish out tissues and a compact mirror from the box and set to gently dabbing at my eyes so as not to disturb my makeup.

The subway comes to a jolting stop and several passengers climb on, scattering like alley cats to grab a spot farthest away from anyone else. All except for a heavyset man in a sapphire blue uniform. He chooses the cherry-red seat kitty-corner to mine, dropping into it.

I angle my knees away to avoid them rubbing against his thigh.

He picks up the crinkled copy of NOW Magazine that someone cast aside on the seat next to him and begins fanning himself with it, releasing a heavy pastrami-scented sigh. “Maybe I should just hang out down here, where it’s cool. Gonna be a real stinker out there, with this humidity,” he murmurs to no one in particular, wiping at the beads of sweat running down his forehead with his palm, seemingly oblivious to the annoyance radiating off me.

I pretend I don’t hear him, because no sane person makes idle conversation on the subway, and pull out my phone to reread the text exchange with Corey from earlier, as I stood in a daze on Front Street, trying to process what had just transpired.

I just got fired.

Shit. I’m sorry.

Can we meet up for a coffee?

Can’t. Swamped. With clients all day.

Tonight?

We’ll see. Call you later?

The question mark on the end makes it sound like even a quick phone call to comfort his girlfriend is not guaranteed at this point. Granted, I know he’s been drowning in pressure lately. The ad agency he’s working for has had him slaving around the clock to try and appease their biggest—and most unruly—corporate client, and he needs to nail this campaign if he ever has a hope in hell of getting the promotion he’s been chasing for almost two years. I’ve only seen him twice in the past three weeks. I shouldn’t be surprised that he can’t just drop everything and meet me.

Still, my disappointment swells.

“You know, on days like this, I wish I were a woman. You ladies can get away with wearing a lot less.”

This time, the sweaty man is talking to me. And looking right at me, at the bare legs my black pencil skirt has afforded his view.

I offer him a flat gaze before squeezing my thighs together and shifting my body farther away, letting my long cinnamon-brown hair serve as a partial curtain for my face.

Finally, he seems to sense my mood. “Oh, you’ve had one of those days.” He points to the box of belongings on my lap. “Don’t worry, you’re not alone. I’ve seen more than a few people get walked out of office buildings over the years.”

I’d peg him for his early fifties, his wiry hair more salt than pepper and almost nonexistent on top. A quick glance at his shirt shows me a label that reads WILLIAMSONS CUSTODIAN CO. He must work for one of those cleaning businesses that companies like mine contract out. I’d see them when I worked late, leisurely pushing their carts along the cubicle aisles, trying not to disturb employees as they empty waste bins.

“I quit,” I lie as I slide the lid back on the box, covering it from his prying eyes. The wound to my pride is still far too fresh to be casually talking about it with complete strangers.

He smiles in a way that says he doesn’t believe me. “So, what’d you do, anyway?”

“Risk analyst for a bank.” Why am I still humoring this man’s need for conversation?

He nods, as if he knows exactly what that means. If you asked me what that meant four years ago when I was collecting my degree from the University of Toronto, I couldn’t have told you. But I was excited all the same when the job offer came through. It was my first step as a young professional female, the bottom rung of a corporate ladder in downtown Toronto. Half-decent pay with benefits and a pension, at a big bank. Plenty of boxes to check in the “good career” department, especially for a twenty-two-year-old woman, fresh out of school and good at math.

It wasn’t long before I came to realize that all being a risk analyst entails is throwing numbers into spreadsheet cells and making sure the answers that the formulas spit out are the ones you want. It’s little more than monkey work. Frankly, I’m bored out of my skull most days.

“So why’d you quit then?”

“I didn’t,” I finally admit through a shaky sigh. “You know, restructuring.”

“Oh, yeah. I know it well.” He pauses, studying me intently. “Did you love it, though?”

“Does anyone actually love their job?”

“You’re too young to be that cynical.” He chuckles. “Did you at least like the people you worked with?”

I think about my group. Mark, my micromanaging boss with chronic coffee breath who books meetings simply to validate his purpose and makes note of the minute you leave for lunch and the minute you return to your desk; and Tara, the obsessive Type A with no life outside of her job, who spends her weekends sending long-winded emails about process improvement suggestions with “Urgent! Action Required” subject lines to hijack everyone’s in-box first thing Monday morning. Raj and Adnan are nice enough, although they’ve never gone out for drinks after work and can’t accept a simple “Good morning, how are you?” from me without their faces turning beet red. And then there’s May, who sits one cubicle over, who never sends her dailies on time and who eats fermented cabbage at her desk, even though there’s an HR policy against bringing strongly scented food into the office. I have to leave my desk or spend ten minutes gagging.