An anonymous narration tells the "love story" about a New Yorker who begin an intimate relationship with his female married boss:
In those first few weeks after moving to Chicago, when part of me already knew I was going to end up sleeping with my married boss, I tried to distract myself by walking around the city. I didn't have a car, or a license, or even an idea, really, of why I'd moved there, except for a job. So I walked across a lot of bridges and ended up in a lot of bars. Every booth was filled with another season's hopeful fans, the waitresses saying: "Don't count on it, but what're you having?"
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Here was my (biggest) mistake: I told a woman I loved her, then I tried to keep her hidden. I wanted her enough to take her, but not enough to let everybody know. I thought if they knew, I'd be fired. Or if I weren't fired, then reviled. Oh, that kid, they'd say, he dragged his personal life into the office and made us all look at it, like a cat dropping off a mole. Looking back, this was all just a way to protect myself. Sleeping with her prevented her from being my boss, which I enjoyed, but if people knew I was sleeping with her, they would think I didn't deserve my job, or my reputation for doing good work. At the same time, I loved her, or thought I did. But that's the thing: In that situation, you can't really know. There's no fixed perspective. You don't know, at work or in bed, whether you're making love to your boss or your lover. In the attempt to maintain control, you have no control at all.