It’s Just Fiction.

‘…And this is all I have left.’

He places a worn-out photograph on the table.

Running his slender fingers across the rough edges, eyes glazed over. I hesitantly push my coffee out of the way to see it properly. The hustle and bustle of the coffee shop drowns out his noise but he is visibly upset.

I hate watching a man cry. Especially over a dog.

I lean forward to catch his gaze, trying to look sympathetic, involved. Our eyes meet. I take a long, deep breath.

‘I need to use the bathroom.’

Seemingly startled with this admission, he wipes the tears from his cheeks with the backs of his hands; his eyes red, wide and directed at the floor.

‘…Ok.’

The toilets are buzzing with perfume and stress but I manage to find a free cubicle to lock myself into. I put the seats down to sit and flop my head into my hands. Why the fuck do I have to be so nice. It’s not getting me anywhere. Or anyone.