At the office

I skim read emails, complete my career objectives, attend two meetings and delegate tasks.

Cigarette break.

Outside, fellow smokers join me. We inhale, exhale and sigh in silence, standing like monuments in a jagged line. Smoke rises up like fog.

I try not to measure my life by calculating the amount of hours I'll waste sitting at my desk.

In the ladies, I'm washing my hands when the woman comes in, slamming the door open, and stands stock still in the doorway. I don’t recognise her, but I know the look: fretful fatigue.

She makes a guttural moaning sound.

For a split second, I hesitate before trying to walk past her. She steps a little closer to me.

I take another look at her, a real good look. Her mouth is an overexposed set of teeth and bloodied gums. Her clothes are torn. She is covered head to toe in blood and pink stuff.

Oddly, I don't panic. I take a step back and she follows.

Fear slices me like a paper cut.

She makes that noise again.

I tell her to fuck off – doesn’t she have any work to do?

She moves in, slowly, shuffling, ever closer. As she reaches for me, I dip under her outstretched arms, turn to look at her on retreat. Her smell clings to the open doorway. It reminds me of vegetable soup.

She turns, slowly and watches me leave. I feel a little sorry for her. I know how she feels.