The Things I Can't Do To You

By four thirty on Friday afternoon, Amelia Carter had answered one hundred and twelve emails, reorganised two project schedules, corrected three mistakes that were not hers, and politely apologised twice for problems she had not created. She rubbed at the bridge of her nose before looking back at the spreadsheet glowing on her computer screen. The neat rows of figures blurred together until every cell seemed determined to merge into the next. Around her, the open-plan office buzzed with conversations, ringing telephones, keyboards tapping at frantic speed and the constant hum of printers refusing to rest. It had been one of those days. The kind that began with optimism and ended with everyone discovering a new emergency that somehow became Amelia's responsibility. "Amelia?" She looked up as Martin appeared beside her desk carrying a folder thick enough to make her shoulders ache in sympathy. "I know it's late," he said, already smiling in the hopeful way people did when they wanted a favour, "but would you mind checking these before Monday?" She glanced at the clock. "You need them today?" "If possible." She opened the folder. Half of the pages were missing signatures and several sections contained handwritten amendments that contradicted the typed copies. It was at least two hours of work. Martin shifted awkwardly. "I would have done it myself, but I've promised my wife we'd leave early." Amelia smiled because it seemed easier than pointing out she had promised herself exactly the same thing. "I'll sort them." "I knew I could rely on you." Of course you did. He disappeared before she could change her mind. Across the office, one of her colleagues caught her eye and mouthed, *Again?* Amelia simply smiled. There was no point complaining. Martin would not change. The workload would not magically shrink. And if she refused, she would only spend the weekend worrying about whether she should have helped. She hated that about herself sometimes. Not the helping. The worrying. By the time she finally shut down her computer, the office had emptied considerably. The evening sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting long golden rectangles across the carpet. Her shoulders felt stiff. Her eyes ached. Her stomach reminded her that the sandwich she had eaten at her desk six hours earlier hardly counted as lunch. As she gathered her handbag, another voice drifted across the room. "Have a good weekend, Amelia." "You too." "You doing anything exciting?" She laughed softly. "Probably laundry." Her colleague grinned. "Living the dream." "I know." The lift carried her down to the ground floor with only three other people, all of whom looked just as exhausted as she felt. When the doors slid open, warm July air drifted inside, replacing the recycled chill of the office with something infinitely kinder. Birmingham was still alive with commuters spilling onto pavements, friends meeting outside restaurants and buses weaving through the evening traffic. Normally she would walk straight home. Her apartment was only fifteen minutes away. She could change into jogging bottoms, order takeaway, water the plants she was convinced secretly disliked her, and spend the rest of the evening reading another romance novel while pretending she definitely was not crying over fictional men who always seemed to know exactly what to say. It sounded wonderfully peaceful. It also sounded unbearably lonely. She stopped walking. The Fox and Chance stood just across the road, its warm amber lights glowing invitingly through wide windows. One drink. That was all. One quiet glass of wine before heading home. She crossed the street. The familiar scent of polished wood, fresh food and citrus greeted her the moment she stepped inside. The Fox and Chance had never tried to become the trendiest place in the city. It did not need flashing lights or deafening music to attract people. Comfortable chairs, soft lighting and an atmosphere that encouraged conversation had earned it a loyal crowd of regulars who came for exactly those reasons. Amelia understood why. The noise settled around her instead of overwhelming her. Laughter blended naturally with quiet conversations. Somewhere near the back of the room, someone celebrated a birthday, while a couple by the window shared a cocktail with two straws and the sort of smiles that made the rest of the world disappear. She found an empty table overlooking the room and slipped off her cardigan before sitting down. A waitress approached with an easy smile. "The usual?" Amelia blinked. "You remember?" "You always order the same thing." She laughed. "Is that good or embarrassing?" "I think it's reassuring." "In that case, yes please." "A White Russian?" "Yes please." "I'll bring it over." Amelia settled back in her chair and allowed herself the rare luxury of doing absolutely nothing. No deadlines. No ringing phones. No colour-coded calendars. Just people existing. It amazed her how comforting strangers could be when none of them expected anything from her. Her phone buzzed. Lucy: Survived the week? Amelia smiled. Amelia: Barely. Lucy: Pub? Amelia: Already here. A reply arrived almost instantly. Lucy: Without me? Rude. Amelia: You cancelled on me three times this month. Lucy: Details. Amelia: I'm having one drink then going home. Lucy: That sentence has become your entire personality. Amelia laughed quietly. The waitress returned with her cocktail then. "Enjoy." "Thank you." The first sip tasted wonderfully cold. She closed her eyes for a second longer than necessary. Bliss. Perhaps she should start doing this more often. Not waiting until she felt completely exhausted before allowing herself an hour to breathe. She spent so much of life moving from one responsibility to another that she had almost forgotten what stillness felt like. Her gaze wandered across the room. Two elderly gentlemen argued cheerfully over a crossword. Three women dressed for a night out attempted to take a group selfie, dissolving into laughter every time someone blinked. Near the bar, a man in a suit gestured dramatically while telling what looked like an embarrassing story to his colleagues. It all felt reassuringly ordinary. Exactly what she needed. She reached into her handbag for the novel she had been reading. The bookmark remained stubbornly halfway through chapter twelve. She managed perhaps three pages before realising she had read the same paragraph four times without taking in a single word. Her mind simply refused to settle. Instead, it drifted back to work. Had she attached the correct document to that final email? Would Martin notice she had reorganised his entire schedule? Should she have spoken up during the afternoon meeting instead of apologising when Simon interrupted her? She sighed. Overthinking really should qualify as an Olympic sport. "You look thoughtful." The waitress had returned to clear an empty glass from the neighbouring table. "I think too much." She smiled knowingly. "Most people in here on Fridays are trying to stop thinking." "I might borrow that strategy." "It usually starts with a second glass." Amelia laughed. "I'll see how brave I feel." When the waitress disappeared again, Amelia found herself smiling. Small conversations with strangers had always come more naturally than large conversations with people she knew. There were no expectations and no pressure. Just tiny moments shared before both people carried on with their evenings. She liked that. Outside, dusk had begun softening the edges of the city. The lights inside the bar grew warmer as daylight slowly faded beyond the windows. Amelia rested one elbow on the table and watched the world continue around her. Then, without quite knowing why, she felt the unmistakable sensation of being watched. It was not dramatic. Not frightening. But it was simply enough to make the tiny hairs on the back of her neck rise. She looked up. Across the room, standing near the bar with a pint in one hand, was a man she did not recognise. He was perhaps in his mid-thirties, neatly dressed in a navy shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. At that exact moment, their eyes met. He smiled politely. Amelia instinctively smiled back before looking away. Perhaps she had imagined it. People looked around bars all the time. It hardly meant anything. She picked up her book again. Another paragraph passed without registering. When she looked up a second time, the man was still there. Not staring exactly. Just... looking. Every so often his attention drifted elsewhere before returning in her direction. She frowned slightly. Maybe he thought he recognised her. That happened occasionally. Or perhaps she reminded him of somebody. She certainly was not the sort of woman strange men watched across crowded bars. She had never considered herself particularly remarkable. Perfectly average height, perfectly average appearance. The sort of person who disappeared happily into crowds. She tucked a strand of honey-blonde hair behind one ear and returned her attention to the room. Don't be ridiculous. He was probably waiting for someone. A woman entered through the front doors. For one hopeful second Amelia assumed he had been looking past her all along. Instead, the newcomer joined a completely different group. The man remained exactly where he was. She took another sip of wine. Stop it. You are inventing stories again. She had always done this. One tiny observation became ten imagined explanations before she even realised she was overthinking. It was entirely possible he had not looked at her once. Entirely possible she had simply noticed him because there was nothing else demanding her attention. She checked her phone again. No new messages. The city outside continued glowing beneath the deepening evening sky. Inside, conversations rose and fell in gentle waves. She was just beginning to relax again when curiosity tempted her into one final glance. The man was still there. This time he looked down into his glass for a moment before finishing the last mouthful. He placed the empty pint carefully onto the bar. Then, after a brief pause, he picked it up, thanked the bartender with a nod, and turned. His eyes found hers once more and a small, confident smile touched his face. With his drink now empty and nowhere else to be, he began walking across the room towards her table. Amelia's fingers tightened ever so slightly around the stem of her wine glass. She had the distinct feeling that her quiet evening was about to become considerably less ordinary.