Yeah, it sucks, but it's my job. They pay me, and most of the time they leave me alone. So he takes me to lunch. I don't know why I agreed to go, except that when a figure of authority, albeit a temporary figure of authority, offers to pay for one's lunch, one says yes. Also, I'm a freaking temp.
Free lunch is free lunch.
I order a grilled chicken Caesar. I start to wonder what I'm doing sitting across a pale pink tablecloth from a man for whom I have less than no respect. But okay, I think, I can make pleasant conversation, emphasize heavily my fictitious boyfriend, and maybe by the end of the meal Mr. Fashion Hair will have realized that I'm a real person worthy of more than an obvious nod to the tits. Clearly, I have not been paying close attention. I think I missed something.