Where do you go on Wednesdays?

I wait for you to stomp into the morning meetings cuspidate, and forget that you go somewhere else. Where?

I observe you, and you must observe me. What are you looking at? A girl, or a woman, looking at her diary, glazing over dates. Someone with a tendency to look vaguely embarrassed easily; with young people, when they pose awkward questions, with people she admires, when people suggest she is good at things when she is not. We were at a meeting- and it was suggested that each group selected a beautiful assistant. MH joked that it should be me, but it's not- I don't want to be thought of like that, I want to be known for other things. I dipped my head- because the rest of it is that I'm not, objectively, and I don't care. She was making a statement that she's older, and she didn't have to. Anyway. I look embarrassed in meetings, hopping from foot to foot, jigging around to some imaginary music- or I'll run to photocopy things, which others don't. My sense of urgency is off. You probably think I am bright (intellectually) but less than I think I am, and pale. It's obvious I'm pale.

You're pale too, so this is alright. You've got dark circles under your eyes, sometimes, and your skin's got a cloudlike quality. You're frequently drinking from a cup- something someone's bought you as a present, one of those pieces that state you are mad or something along those lines. It doesn't suit you being sensible in the mornings. You bob in, sit down. It's very quiet in our morning meetings. I try to make a note to look at your eyes, but more frequently I observe your footwear. It's usually shiny- last year it was trainers, so I am beginning to wonder what has changed. The sort of shoes I coveted as a child (and still do, sometimes)- narrow patent leather confections that you trot about happily in, flat pumps beaded with a profusion of flowers on the toe, boots with steep heels constructed from patent and suede, blue and grey and black. I watch you talk. I am almost frightened to speak to you in front of people, because you have a habit of staring people down- useful in our line of work, but terrifying on anything other than a one-to-one basis. I also worry that you think I am callow. I said something about being turned down for lots of jobs- and you responded something that I didn't quite hear. Other people laughed. Later, you said, "some of these won't even get that far". Are you laughing at me for being bourgeois and wearing silly hats and expecting too much? I can't figure it out. It would devastate me. And this is key; you devastate, and remain undevastated. I'm blitzed. Smouldering cheeks and gaunt blackened precipices in my eyes, crepuscular moonlit mouth. By lots of people, but most easily by you; though you never have. To my knowledge. I'm so dense that a lot of it passes me by.