HOW I LOATHED HER
A slightly crumpled sheet of paper lay in her desk drawer alongside her resignation letter. I picked it up, and something told me it was meant for me. Suddenly, an old childhood game came to mindplaying spies with the boys, writing secret notes in lemon juice or milk, carefully holding them over the hob to reveal the hidden messages. Even Lizzie and I had once reminisced about those silly games.
Barely waiting for lunch break, I rushed home and, like a lovesick schoolboy, fumbled over the gas flame with trembling hands. And I was rightof course I was, Im always right! It *was* her letter. She was just as mad as me.
*”If youre reading this, I wasnt wrong about you,”* Lizzie had written. *”You figured out what to do with this sheet. Things couldve been different. But humiliating me killed everything I ever felt for you. I think you even enjoyed it. Maybe thats all youre capable of. Just because someone hurt you once doesnt mean you get to mock those who wont fight back. Did you really think I couldnt have repaid you in kind? But then I wouldnt be me. You can win a battle and lose the war. Dont look for me. Goodbye.”*
*Why?* The question gnawed at me over and overwhy had I hated her so fiercely, so terribly?
The moment she walked in, it was like she carried sunlight, moonlight, and the scent of the sea bottled up inside her. Birds burst into absurdly perfect song, roses and peonies bloomed on the spot. And Im no romantic, but I swear thats what it felt like.
It got stifling. Hot. I was burning up.
Lizzie wasnt some classic beauty, but she had *something*something that drove me mad, something I couldnt even name. Think I hadnt seen pretty women before? Please. Id known plenty, dated plenty. Blondes, brunettes, redheadsthough Id always had a soft spot for brunettes with sharp bobs. Flowers, chocolates, perfume, dinnersId done it all. Loved and been loved. Fell fast, moved on faster if rejected. No regrets.
My first love? Brutal breakup. Thought Id never recover. Then I realisedits far easier to be the one in control than the one begging for scraps.
But with her? I just wanted to bury my face in her lap, trace my fingers over her soft skin, twist her chestnut waves around my hands, breathe her incompletely, endlessly, without rules or limits.
Lizzie worked under me. Not that she was my best employeethough she *was* the one I relied on. Tough projects? Handed straight to her. Deadlines? Never missed. Id shout at her sometimes, relish the way she shrunk under my glare. Why? No idea. The more defenceless she seemed, the more I wanted to break her. If only shed criedjust onceId have mopped up her tears, soothed her. Maybe then things wouldve changed. Maybe *I* wouldve.
I tried everything to get her attention. Chocolates, compliments, lingering stares that shouldve spoken for themselves. I wanted to touch hernot just physically. I wanted to *know* her, mind and soul. And I nearly did. She was interestedI could *feel* it.
When she was near, it was like being scalded.
Once, I pulled her into a hug. She shoved me off without a word, just fixed me with that look. How *dare* she?
She was my equal, though I refused to admit it. WorseI think I knew, deep down, she was *mine*. But she wasnt. And that infuriated me.
Watching her handle problems was fascinating. She always found a way. My mates would smirk, licking their chops, assuming Id hooked her. They wanted her too. Pathetic.
She was untouchable.
Id flirt with other women on the phone in front of her, trying to spark jealousy. Laugh too loud, make plans. She didnt even glance my way.
I *knew* she felt it tooevery cell in my body screamed it. She *had* to. I didnt just believe it; I *knew*.
She needed this job. Shed endure me until the day she finally crumpled at my feet, and Id shower her with devotion. I craved it.
But pride doesnt just tear down wallsit obliterates everything in its path.
Then Friday came. She didnt. Phone off, emails blocked. That little minx left the project unfinished. Shed set me up.
Gone. Like mist. She *was* mistclose enough to touch, yet always slipping through my fingers.
I used to think that sort of thing didnt happen.
How wrong I was.
It does.
