Friday, 15 August 2008

Intuiting

Working with him keeps me internally on tenterhooks, a edgy feeling like the scrape of ceramic grinding against ceramic. He has hard grey eyes that I can’t read, a lean face that doesn’t change. People whisper when he leaves the room: poor guy, he must practically live here to keep the place running like it does.

When I tell him about my latest catastrophe, he seems for the first time since I met him at a loss for something to say. His gaze lingers on me for a second, two, longer than necessary. A little waver at the back of my mind, doubt trembling there, and the suspicion that grows into a certainty that shit, he’s concerned for me.

Now, a little fierce quick blaze along some angle inside me that wants to do him proud: my boss.

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