She doesn’t come in peace; there is the shock of her on the stairs. Those heavy steps give you time to pause, redirect your attention. She twirls into the seat beside you, a broken jewellery box ballerina. Her bleached hair catches the light, cheap and fake as old Christmas tinsel. Spreadsheets and Monday morning meetings can wait; her weekend must be divulged and dissected, while yours is shrivelled up and stamped on. You could protect yourself, retreat to the stationery cupboard. But she knows your scent, your name, your boyfriend’s star sign and where you live. All peeled off you as easily as a onion skin.
Love that last line - it really hits home. It perfectly encapsulates EXACTLY this sort of self-involved person, and the toxicity of dealing with them day in day out.
ReplyDelete