I tie my hair into a bun a second time. I can’t cover that odd patch of hairlessness
on the right side of my head this morning. I have been able to do this job, deftly,
since the time covering a bald spot mattered to a teenage mind. These days with
my eyes fixed on the TV, even. This morning is different. This morning I feel
nervous. I decide to quit this pointless game and spray some dry shampoo, squeeze
my eyes shut in an effort to make myself believe that my hair is frizz-free. Through
the over-stimulated ride on the three-tyre auto-rickshaw, I cover my nose and
mouth in an attempt to filter out the city pollution. I can sense the thumping
of my heart on the roof of my throat, as my auto-driver swirls to a stop
outside the building where my office is located. I take the first two flights
of stairs, determined. I am chanting, “I can get past this. I know I can.”
I walk in through the single glass door of the building. There she sits.
First one to work, headphones on, a dull residue of the beats of the song in
her ear making a buzzing noise across the floor. I look apprehensively at her
unsmiling face. Her eyes are fixed on her computer screen as if in a trance. She
knows I am nearby, but she doesn’t move. Her inaction seems aggressive now. Last
morning, we were best friends. Today, we are odd enemies? A woman can be another
woman’s strongest advocate, but she can also be the most unforgiving adversary.
Everything is fierce when it comes to a woman – the love, the hate, the win,
the loss, the obsession.
Last night, it was around 9.00 pm when I decided that I wanted to go
home. I had been working on documents for 13 hours, with lunch at my desk. My
eyes were seeing two shades of black on the screen and my brain was refusing to
interpret that into intelligible information. I looked over to my team-lead and
apologized for leaving while she worked overtime. We were, after all, fixing her
mistakes. She looked bitter. I had hardly opened the door to my home when I
heard my phone beep. Three texts from her in succession. I skimmed through for
the main theme of the texts – not done
… unprofessional … feedback …
I knew what was happening. I responded in my usual impertinent,
impetuous tone – the one I am notorious for among friends, switched off my
phone and rolled into bed. All night, I processed the nature of the
relationship I shared with this woman. Last week, she wanted to go out for
drinks – I said yes. She held my hand and asked me in earnest, “Whom do you
love more? Sue or me?” I love Sue, An, Srey, and all my girls. They are my
strength and my weakness. Why would I love one more than the other? “Of course
I love you more,” I lied. She fought for my attention like a lover would, but
she was also the one who approved my vacation. It was complicated. It was going
to get ugly, this break up.
I sit with my back facing her, our chairs almost grazing each other. My
computer is booting up; my email is loading. I see a pop-up email notification
and, of course, it is from her. I have to read the subject three times before I
understand the depth of the situation.
Resignation. In bold.
