I Hate you.

At times I caught myself staring at him, Counting the strands on the back of his neck, those that stood out of place. Forty, I think it was last Tuesday, the last day I saw him. Cynthia ticked seconds by per word, perhaps more than one if she was irritated, but usually one word a second. With her skin molding against her palm, her features were sagged and askew, but on good days, those where she sat upright and smirked slightly, she had a immaculate alignment to her features. I praise her parent on their fine handy-work.

That day, however, was a “slug day”, one where she sighed and blinked each eye a few seconds before the other. These days were more common. The Man she was talking to, whatever his name , was the man I’d pandered my attentions to that day. Never, in the Six months I’ve resided here for lunch break, also coincidentally the six months since Cynthia began her narrative cadence in this spot, have I ever taken the time to find out who her partner was. I could recall every detail of his visage from behind, but I couldn’t name a modicum of expository regarding his front. Yet on this Tuesday, I took a particular interest in him and who he was.

Perhaps the foreboding I never realized I had, was edging me towards the imminent and the unavoidable, Giving me way to the future in the universe’s own unique manner. So There I sat, and There I stared and there we met. Rearing a corner to return to his seat and desk and abundance of navy blue sticky notes, he jabbed his hip with the pointed edge of a table, in his spiraling recoil, he managed to dump the content of his notably heavy mug on my lap, belt, and thin button down. Cunt, my brain filled in. No no, disagreed my consciousness, this is surely an accident. The man, similarly assumed himself to have the disposition of that described by my brain, approached me and apologized profusely.

In an immediate thought I marveled at how little I recognized his facial feature. Then in a recollection themed towards the further behind regions of my mind, I assumed he must have had a painstakingly similar event happen to feel so empathetic to the situation. That or he had an amazingly affectionate face. The thought cocked my head to the side, slanting my sights on the man. I wouldn’t have assumed the freckles, but all else was, or should have been, up to part with my inner constructions toward him. He was very much like his face.