one-way ticket

I told him to slow down. I said nothing good could come from this amount of speed but Alex thought he could have it all. His 4:47 mad dash for the 5:10 GO Train left me lying on the carpet of his dry stale office and as the hum of the fans died down I knew I was in for the weekend. I looked around me and noticed how much the carpet resembled the water in that Monet painting of the London skyline or the Thames River or the smog over the Thames River from the London skyline and it made me wonder I never continued with art studies in college.

I would have loved to see the expression on his face as he stepped off the train and tried to find me...the panic stricken look, the wildness in his eyes and maybe a little bit of that panic-drool that sometimes comes out when he's rushing somewhere and then he'd turn to the people behind him, around him and notice them all wearing their gloves, that smug look of hand-warmth on their faces and the certainty that they would survive the long trek to their cold cars, etched on their smug little faces. Even the word 'smug' would enrage him and before he could stop himself, he'd be yelling "Who took it??!!!" at the top of his voice and thrashing about wildly bumping into them...the smugs...and...

The Portuguese cleaning lady was back. Walking past the executives in the office, she felt lucky to work for such nice guys. They all gave her something for Christmas, a little envelope or a bottle of wine. Some chocolates. They were all so generous with her in December...all except for one. He barely muttered "merry christmas" as he raced by her that day. And, now, here was HIS glove, lying on the floor next to his cubicle... Breathe. Breathe. She's looking down at me...good good, I'm saved! And I watched as she bent down to pick me up and looked at me. She smelled me and stroked her face with me. And then tossed me in her garbage bin. Fuckin' Alex.