She came into work with a walk
she had practiced.
a walk that was meant to convey
strength and composure.
I imagined her in front of the full length mirror
rehearsing;
getting frustrated when she couldn't convince herself;
maybe the smudges were still on the mirror
from where I had fucked her;
that can't be good for this rehearsal process.
Maybe it was strengthening,
like mortar between bricks.
She threw a handful of photos at me,
I didn't care for the gesture.
She took a deep breathe as if
summoning some more of this inner mortar
for some epic soliloquy; a monologue of her love
and how I had crushed her soul - or something lame like that.
She looked me in the eye, hers red, moist and fibrous;
her lip quivering like a composer's wand in the rapture of a crescendo.
"fuck you."
She stood waiting for a response,
I must have taken too long as she
turned around and stormed through the door.
Her walk meant something on the way out.
It wasn't stylized or over acted.
It wasn't a choreographed march
with a well rehearsed connotation.
No.
This was real.
I picked up the photos and
my stomach crumbled like dissolving mortar.
I turned the 'open' sign over; 'closed'.
an early midnight - like I was some ancient god
with control over time.
I spent the afternoon burning those photos
It's never a good idea to leave poison darts lying around.
