I tried flattery, charm and witty jokes, but Beryl’s face remained solid, impassive. I never once cracked her grim resolve. Any upward twitch of her lips was quickly arrested and deposited for safe keeping.
She pursed thoughts deep into her apron pockets, extracted red and black pens to annotate her accounts and bundles of keys to lock away her approval. She’d fold her arms, her skin puckered and thin as the bank notes from the days takings—elastic snapped, bound and ordered.
I smarted to learn she laughed behind my back until I realised there’s a difference between winning and earning.
I stopped trying to gain her approval and realised she liked me so much more. But by then, I found her too mean, too measured, too calculating. I felt richer for stealing her affection and seeing how little it was worth.
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