by Mel George
I can remember the whole conversation in the coffee shop up until the words, "so I'm leaving." After that, all I can remember is the way the sugar packet crackled in my fingers; the little crumbs on the table - some of them ginger-coloured from the carrot cake and some of them sugar grains. I can remember the small sharpness of them on my fingers as I meticulously herded them up into a triangle shape, and the scraping of the end of my spoon as I destroyed it again. I can remember nodding and laughing, although I couldn't hear what you were saying over the thudding of my heart. I can remember the bitter aftertaste of coffee in my mouth, and jumping out of my seat as someone nearby dropped a cup. And I can't remember what I said when you asked me if I was all right.
Mel George doesn't like getting up in the dark. Random bits of her writing can be found in various places, including here on 6S, and at Every Day Fiction. She edits The Pygmy Giant, which you should visit if you're British and love writing.