He walked past without even noticing me, clutching her hand as if it was the only thing that was enabling him to get up those stairs. Off they went to the end of year lunch so that everyone could say their goodbyes and wish them well. In my imagination, in my wildest hopes, someone told him to fuck off and die, but if it came from my imagination and my hopes it’s because the person who would have said it would have been me. That’s why I didn’t go. That’s really why I didn’t go. If I told people that it was because they are leaving and let them have their day, it’s because I wasn’t adding the ending. The bit where I smash a bottle and shove it in his neck or her face or... but if I didn’t add that bit, it’s because I didn’t know that I was still so fucking angry. I only realised that as I flipped them the finger.
Still one lunch, and a bit of alcohol later I’m laughing at myself. Somewhere in all this mess there’s still hope. I’m going to find a cute little bachelorette pad, I’m going to have a fucking fantastic holiday and maybe even write a fabulous story or two or three. And then... at some point in the future I’m going to have to let this anger go.