Après moi, le déluge

It began, or rather, ended, with an email. A “Dear John” squeezing of his heart, rendering him into a lumpish mass, slumped over the steering wheel of his car. Hugh had just pulled up to his office, parked, took out his cell, and read the words that left him in pain.

Not a good start to the day,

Looking at the front door of the building, watching others stride, slink or glide in, Hugh was ignored. It was a state of being he had grown accustomed to. Finally, realizing he had not turned the car off, Hugh killed the engine. It clanked to a halt. Hugh and the car were frozen in silence, frozen in movement. Hugh heaved himself out of the car after a few minutes, the cold weather of a long winter hitting him. Before he shut the door, he reached back in, turning off the knob to the heater like she always had reminded him to do. Cursing silently, Hugh backed out of the car, clicked the locks, and slammed the door, wincing at the sound.

His sweater and parka had gotten bunched up on his ride into work. He pulled both down, adjusting one thing after another, standing facing his car, staring at nothing of any real notice. It wasn’t until his breath hurt from the cold did he decide to go indoors.

The day was as horrible as Hugh thought it would be as he trudged inside.  The morning’s message was not something he could really separate from the day. He carried these dismissive words in his entire being, and others saw it in the way Hugh walked slumped over, talked in a low volume monotone. When someone would catch his eyes, they saw liquid glistening, brimming just above the lashes.