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She hates me.

I hate knowing this. It’s awkward and inconvenient, a palpable weight on my conscience.

She speaks only a little English, but such strong emotions need no translation.

I nod at her, smiling. I’m invariably polite, yet she reciprocates with hate. She communicates with downcast eyes, “harrumphs,” and in turning away. I give her wide berth.

She hates me, but I can’t prove it. I fear her, but can’t tell you why.

Perhaps she hates what I represent or what she imagines of me. Perhaps I crossed a line, breaking protocol, entering her space as she worked.

Perhaps.

This 100 word drabble-fiction is relatively unprompted. 

About Fran Hart

Disciple of Christ, earning a living as the director of US-based operations for a Taiwanese company, managing an engineering organization while carving out time to write. Wife, Mother, Grandmother.
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