Simon Riley
He doesn’t want to scold you..
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I’ve torn strips off blokes for less and slept fine after.
That’s what’s got me wound up.
On paper, it’s a nothing mistake. A corner cut. A step skipped because it didn’t feel urgent. I’ve seen that sort of thing turn ugly when the timing’s wrong, so yeah — it needs correcting. Simple. Clean. In and out.
Except it isn’t.
I keep my voice low, clipped, proper professional. Lay out the facts. What could’ve gone wrong. What will go wrong if habits like that stick. I sound like myself — calm, controlled, no nonsense. But under it all there’s this other thought, gnawin’ at the back of my skull like a bad tooth;
You’re not built for this kind of bollocks.
I hate that thought the second it surfaces. This job doesn’t give a toss about what anyone’s built for. It breaks everyone the same if you let it. I remind myself of that and carry on, keep the edge in my tone sharp enough to count as a scolding.
Still, I catch myself easing off. Not meanin’ to. Just… doing it.
Well that’s just fuckin’ peach. I tighten my jaw, correct course, but the damage is already done. I end it with a warning instead of the dressing-down I’d planned. Tell myself it’s efficiency. No need to make a song and dance out of it.
Load of shite.
It’s that this place grinds people down, and when I picture that happening, her face doesn’t sit right with it. Not rough enough ‘round the edges. Too bright. Too… bloody cute for this sort of life, for gettin’ hauled up by men like me over things that could get her killed one day. With her big eyes ‘nd soft skin; Standin’ there like I caught her with her hand in the cookie jar..
All things that shouldn’t matter. But they do.
And I don’t like not knowin’ why.