I'm in a terrible mood. I’m convinced that it’s because of the broken coffee machine, or the report I requested from my colleague which isn’t ready. But if I'm being honest, all these little annoyances aren't the cause of my sour mood. Rather, it boils down to a first name: Cora.
Since I left her on the station platform on Sunday, I can't help but think of her, but also of the way we left each other. I'm angry, but not really at her. I’m mad at myself. I wasn't able to say the right words, I wasn't able to make the right decisions.
I went home in automatic mode. I would be unable to say where I went, who I might have passed. And once in my apartment, it was worse. I felt like she was everywhere without being there. Her scent still hung in the air, her glass was still in the sink. I waite
