Friday Afternoon

If she leaves now, there's a good, no, a GREAT chance he won't see her.
He's buried in his phone with his headphones on.
Perfect.
She's got her back to the door, her hoodie's around her waist, toque pulled low, massive glasses obscuring her face.
She can grab her bag, scoop up her laptop and just GO.

Shit.
Shit shit shit shit.

Mel? Is that you?

Fer crissake- why do people say that?
She shared a bed with him for two years, six months and 13 and a half days.
She picked gingersnap crumbs off his chest while he slurped Earl Grey tea, and read racing biographies to him out loud for hours on end.

They'd stumble over each other in the bathroom half naked, jockeying for space in the mirror.
That beard.
His cheap clippers tripping the fuse.
Every single time.
No one groomed longer than Alan.
He's really not sure it's her?

This from the man who mapped the freckles on her body with a Sharpie.
Who tattooed her name on the inside of his bicep so it lay against his heart with his arm at rest.
He watched her as she dressed, every morning, mirroring the way she stood on her left leg, hip splayed out, arm akimbo.
Just so.
You would think he'd have sniffed her out while he stood in line.

She can smell his toothpaste from here.
That anise flavoured, seven dollar organic stuff that she would ever use because who in their right mind likes liquorice toothpaste?

Damn.
Damn damn double damn.
She can pretend she didn't hear him.
Make a run for it.

Hey.
Hey- I thought it was you. I mean, I KNEW it was, but....yeah, so...
Hey.

Americano? Americano for Alan?
The barista pitches his voice above the constant hum of chatter and keystrokes, intermittent bursts of laughter and the explosions of steam from the Electra on the counter.

Alan turns away to tend to his order.
She slips  out the door, spilling coffee on her way.

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