I get another email from her, later in the week: Interesting Facts About London. The subject line is peppered with Re: Re: Fwd: Fwd: Re:.

She says nothing about our fight.

I don't write back.

~

The office is crowded. It's tight already, this tiny wedge of clean room shoved above the break room. It boasts the only window in the whole workshop, and is potentially rat free. The Big Boss, the draftsman, and the secretary all work up there.

Three desks crowded. And now there are two other builders up there, standing too close to the Big Boss' desk, but with no other option. One of them casts me sidelong looks. He never looks into people's eyes if he can help it. He's a total weirdo, but so much talent it makes me sick.

The secretary answers my question, what ever it was. Crates or moulds or something banal. Then she leans over her computer, fingers curling on the expensive silver edge.

"You got your raise," she whispers, barely above a breath, because everyone else is Right There.

"Thank you for telling me," I mouth back, and she smiles, genuinely pleased.

~

Silence.

I'm still angry.

It's settled into a quiet calm.

My back feels broken. Such a small fight, and my back feels broken.

I have angry conversations with her in my head, but bite them off before they go too far.

It doesn't really matter anyway.

~

I finish a crate. Screw the lid closed. Go hunting for the pump truck so I can drag it back to the shop.

By the time I return from the drag, there is a car I've never seen, pulled right up to the opening of the sea can.

I can still get in and out, but there's no way I can set up another crate. It's a silver Jaguar. No one I know can afford a silver Jaguar.

"Whose car is that? The fuckin' silver Jag?" I poke my head into the main mouldroom. Eyes over respirators glance at me, at each other, and I get a load of muffled shrugs.

"Fucked if I know," the mould room chief growls, strolling around the shop on bendy cowboy legs.

I call security on it, but there's nothing they can do. It doesn't have security clearance tags. They don't know who it belongs to.

My anger gets hotter, the more I crystallize the image of this asshole parked in my workspace.

~

I spend the weekend alone. I shop alone. I go to one of the big shopping malls. I look at the crowds and think of Paris. I try on a shirt, and it looks terrible on me, like I suspected. I try on a dress, and it also looks terrible. I shop unsuccessfully for decent Christmas cards. I'm too picky. I go see The Martian alone, and laugh louder than anyone else.

I lay on the sofa until my new housemate comes home, drunk, with his tweed jacket smeared with kebab.

He is so English. He's my favourite stereotype.

~

"That's your car?!" It's lunch. I have only a full gulps of beer in me, but I can feel my cheeks getting hot.

Andy grins at me, his cheeky little-boy grin.

"The boss knew! I told him I was parking it there!"

"I...I have so...SO MUCH HATE FOR YOU, ANDY!" I rage, flexing my fingers in the air. "I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH ALL THIS PENT UP RAGE I'VE BEEN SAVING!" I'm raging, loudly, and everyone is laughing, which makes me rage more. "WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH ALL THIS RAGE?!"

Andy laughs, and is entirely unapologetic.

"I WAS GOING TO BEDAZZLE YOUR CAR, ANDY!" I am near shouting. "BEDAZZE, ANDY!"

Andy has gone red with laughing. "DO it!"

Later, as the sun sets behind the massive sound stages, I take a sheet of rhinestones from the secretary and delicately line his headlights and license plate with beautiful rainbow rhinestones.

I see him pull away, later, and he doesn't notice them.

My rage is sated.

~

Sunday comes. The day she usually calls.

She doesn't call.

I keep my Skype off all day.

She doesn't email either.

We both know she can hold out longer than I can.

We both know she will escalate it farther and faster and harder and meaner than I ever will.

The very thought makes me want to cry, for so many reasons.

.

Rosie/

Before&After