***
Pocket Lint
Alison put her hands in her pockets and pulled out the lint. She sprinkled it into the wastepaper basket.
She was not happy with the way this had turned out. Her limbs felt heavy and the atmosphere conspired to push her head down inside her neck.
She would not let this be the end of it. Alison would not let this be the end.
Peter placed his hand gently on her forearm.
Alison cursed him under her breath as she had him tilt his head back and held a tissue to his nose to stem the flow of blood.
“What the hell was that for?” asked Peter.
“For touching me, you idiot, what did you think it was for?”
“I was trying to comfort you.”
“I didn’t need comforting, I needed to punch someone.”
“Well it didn’t have to be me. I’ll never get the stain out of this chair. It took me years to get them to give me this chair.”
“Why do I care about your chair?”
“I need it for my back.”
“So why does it matter if it’s stained?”
“I’m front of house. Clients see this chair. You know what they’re like upstairs about this sort of thing.”
“And?”
Peter gestured with his eyebrows towards the growing queue of clients waiting to check in.
“I’ll be with you in a minute,” he said cheerily through the tissue.
