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.
