She was fragile, tearful, I could tell she had been crying. She was not dressed in black, but seemed like it, and she decided to cover the cleavage. She greeted me like we were drifting apart again, which should not be surprising to me since I broke up with her. I wanted to say “Hey, doll,” like I used to.
“Hey, Doris,” I said, “How are you?”
“Fine,” she was indifferent. “I have the portfolio you asked for. Hopefully, this is the last of it.” We were finishing the project. After that, she would find a new job with in Seattle. I even called my friend Mike, who had a van, to help her move.
I took the sad grey folder from her, “Good.”
She picked out some things from my desk in order, then grabbed the empty coffee mug and turned around to walk out of the office. I wanted to stop her. Tell her I loved her and we should be together, but I knew I would be doing it only to keep this charade going. So I did not and she was gone.
Except that later I followed her into the kitchen and said we should be together.