Quitting time

I was getting ready to leave on a bus. Starting over in a new state somewhere else. I was saying goodbye to a client who was misinterpreting the way I tried to sum up our relationship. A child was asking another man if he'd be able to sit still in some sort of restraint chair the boy had been made to sit in. Trying to connect, I told him I'd scream like I was in the electric chair. But it wasn't me he was asking. 

I was skipping out on going to a wake - a former coworker had died. The people who were planning to attend were people I had worked with in the past but people I no longer knew. I was not obligated and I was not attached. 

You and I were in a classroom waiting for dismissal. I was acting like I didn't want to see you, but I stole glances in your direction. You actually didn't want to see me, and you never once looked up. I was standing by the door waiting for the bell to ring so I could run down the stairs and out of the building proving to you once and for all that I wanted nothing to do with you. 

You looked like you were wearing a disguise. I couldn't see your face. You seemed to be trying to be inanimate. Absolutely still, like you might be if you wanted a strange dog to leave you alone.