The sunlight  streaming through the glass windows spilling over me was paradoxical to the coldness running through my veins.  The laughter next to me in the hallway was irritating and the pretty women with shiny hair and manicured fingernails eating their breakfasts was equally as irksome.  Two sleepless nights, three unanswered messages from the one who broke my heart.  The thought of engaging in mindless prattle with people I work with or customers made me want to crawl out of my own body.

Last night was utterly pointless.  Another bar, another drink, same guy, same chit chat.  Some making out, me being exhausted, too much work, too high expectations, too much chatter richocheting in my mind about the last one. Too many images of big brown eyes, and familiar hands, and big lips continously playing in my head like a projector on a blank screen.

“You have bruises all over your legs.” His voice startled me out of my daydream. What was I even doing? Looking for a bottle of wine, perhaps? Yes, I was stretching up towards a too high shelf.  Yeah, I fucking know, I muttered. And for what? I thought.  I was trying hard to ignore him; being mean to him is the equivalent of becoming angry with a puppy or small child-you immediately regret it and feel even more terrible than before when you were wallowing in self pity. 

The next thing he said was, “Do you have any 2012 resolutions?” And I locked him in hard eye contact and said, “I’m not going to have drunk sex because I can’t fucking come anyways and I’m not going to have small talk that doesn’t interest me.” I raised my eyebrows and waited for his reply. He smiled gently and it warmed me more than I wanted it to. He said, “I can’t imagine having sex with you drunk-why would anyone want to dull that.” He shook his head like he really couldn’t imagine it and for a brief moment I hugged him from behind. My chest against his back and I reached on my toes and let my lips graze his neck for a moment.  I said thank you very quietly.  Too quietly, and I wondered if he knew in that second I had tears in my eyes. I wondered when I was smelling his neck, the way you would smell your father’s or mother’s or sister’s or brother’s what it would be like to live if people could see the bruises on the inside of others as easily as they could see the bruises covering legs and knees from drinking too much and being too rough.  I wondered if everyone would be more sincere with each other. I wondered if everyone would be more careful with their words and glances. Mostly I just wondered if he and everyone else in the entire workplace knew I felt like I was coming unraveled.