Leaving

I can’t bring myself to say goodbye to everybody properly, like it should be done. It’s selfish, I know, but every hug or friendly word brings the hot red flush to my cheeks and fills my eyes with tears. I’ve had too many sprints to the confines of the loo today as it is. Instead I tell people not to be too nice and they seem to understand.

The goodbye speech from my boss is mercifully short although the crowd round my desk is big. They applaud and leave and I slip back to the bathroom, walking fast, head down, playing with my hair to cover my face.

I leave the building for the last time with my boss. I struggle into the lift with my boxes and bags, he with his laptop ready for a weekend of fighting spreadsheets, no doubt. We half embrace in the car park, my arms filled with gifts and the thick leaves of the orchid that didn’t flower this year. We wish each other well and I head to my car. I’m just inside as he passes in his, tooting his horn and waving goodbye.

The tears come before I’ve even started the ignition. I just ignore them, let them trickle down my cheeks knowing that no-one can see me now. The drive home is salty and occasionally punctuated by those small sobs that end with an intake of breath, a gasp for air. I wipe my face when it starts to tickle and itch from the flow, seeing the mascara stains on my fingers. I’m not even sure what I’m crying for. I know I’ll miss so many people but I know it’s the right time for me to leave so the sadness that engulfs and overwhelms me feels somehow insincere. By the end of it I am sure that I cry for crying’s sake, enjoying the rush of emotion in the privacy of the car.

Back at home the flat is empty. I put down the contents of my desk, change my clothes, take off my make up ready to put on a new face, a brave one, ready for the party.