She was walking up the road then, prouder than her words had made her seem. The rain ruining more and more of her perfect hair. The clip-clop of her heels echoed. Percussion to her whimpers. Whimpers not dissimilar to those of the greyhound.

Does this sound familiar to you?

With the downpour less torrential, I stepped into the open air and took the last pull of my fag before throwing it on the pavement to sizzle to its death. But then came another slam. The man was outside the car now. His arms outstretched on the roof like he was being frisked by an imaginary policeman. His head facing the ground. His body wet.

It was you.

Flustered, I returned to my shelter and watched as you viciously kicked the front wheel, yelling, ‘Fuck,’ before running up the steps and disappearing through a huge black door.

Like you said, so near to work.

I stared up at your building. The lights went on in the first-floor windows. I imagined you in there. Furious. Tearing off your soaked shirt. Thinking of her.

And already I didn’t like it.

For the remainder …

For the remainder of the week, whenever my mind wandered towards romantic notions about you, I forced myself to focus on your negatives. From the microscopic particle of spittle that flew from your mouth and landed on my arm when we discussed Mrs Jamison’s scan to the once-white-now-grey crumpled hanky you’d repeatedly pull from your trouser pocket because of your ‘bloody hay fever’. And on the Thursday you gave me the gift of wearing a salmon-pink jumper around your shoulders.

All may have remained that way, had the following not happened on the Friday.

I was gagging for the weekend, even though I knew it would involve a PlayStation tutorial from Dale. Linda had left early for the dentist, and Alison had taken a day’s holiday to climb Mount Snowdon with her rambling club. Both Dr Short and Dr Franco had said their goodbyes a while back. Harris’s last patient had left some time ago, but he was lingering in his office as always, and you were still in with Mr Brown after a peculiarly long time.

Unable to go home until all patients had left, I tidied reception and gathered my belongings for a quick escape. At five twenty, when I was considering popping out for a desperate fag, Mr Brown finally emerged, unresponsive to my smile or small talk. But I soon regretted mumbling ‘Rude’ under my breath as I turned for the stapler, because when I went into his file, I saw the diagnosis for colon cancer. I wonder if he’s still alive.

When I went to your office to ask permission to leave, your head was in your hands. I was unsure if you were angsting over Mr Brown or her. You looked up at me, your smile as phoney as my own.