Across the Room

I never believed in hate at first sight until I saw Brad. He picked you up from work on a Thursday afternoon. We were chatting, laughing again. Yet another moment when I was tempted to open up, to tell you how I feel, but I didn't want to ruin the moment. I love talking to you. I love when you smile and your forehead wrinkles with it. Sometimes I make you laugh so hard you snort, and remember that one time when I made Cherry Coke come out of your nose?

A rusty Ford Taurus, not the newer classy models, but one of those ugly beige things from the late 90's, pulled into the parking lot. I saw you. You looked at the car and your smile faded. You swallowed. You stepped back. You gathered your coat and papers and told me you had to go, that Brad was here to pick you up and you must not keep him waiting.

He got out of the car. Flannel cut-off sleeves and jeans so stiff and dirty they could probably stand on their own. You gave him a hug. He looked up at the window and saw me watching. I did not look away. He smiled at me. I think he knew.

I hate him.