Kevin licks his lips, his tongue brushing against his handlebar mustache in a way that makes me feel icky. Ickier than I feel even looking at his dirty stache. Don’t get me wrong—I love facial hair on a man. But it takes the right kind of hair and the right kind of man. Two strikes there, Kevin. Two strikes. “Look, how about I take you out for dinner after work? We can brainstorm ideas for your future employment.” Oh, Kevin. You just had to, didn’t you? Maybe my feminine wiles aren’t so rusty after all. But I wanted to keep my job, not get a date. I can’t decide if I overshot or undershot.
