My Heroic Self Is Disappointed.

In the toilet cubicle at work, hidden briefly from the day, I hear the sobs, loud and wet, anguish and anger hacking at her chest.

There's one cubicle only, outside a sheer shaft with rubbish and dead birds at its bottom. She can't be in here, although she sounds close as my heartbeat.

Sitting, I picture hot tears, a neck mottled with emotion, a fist forming and unforming. Escaping attack she shelters, clothes torn, isolated in antiseptic office corridors. Sacked, she reads the letter in disbelief, uneaten pasta salad in the carrier bag at her feet, chocolate brownie trampled into the shabby neutral carpet. Staring at silent phone, she readies herself to fling it against whitewashed office brick, the unsuspected affair opened before her like a black flower.

The sobs continue.

I imagine awkwardness, damming a torrent with tea and embarrassment. Forever linked in one moment, briefly I will become part of another, more dramatic, story. Looking at me through fogged eyes, she will see still waters, a tall crumpled man offering brave proximity, unsure yet resolute.

Readying myself in hope, I swing the toilet door open, breath skipping.

The corridor is empty and dull.

My heroic self is disappointed.