I feed my temporary security pass into the terminal and a prompt blinks back a response, YOU MAY BEGIN TYPING.
You’re staring at me through glass that could take a shotgun blast but it doesn’t even dull the animosity in your expression. The terminal keys are cold on my fingertips and I stare into your eyes looking for something. Some warmth.
I write, YOU OKAY?
You look at your screen and pause, then I see your fingers moving. My screen flickers, WHAT DO YOU THINK? LET'S FINISH THIS SO I CAN GO HOME.
Right. I’ve known it’s over but I can’t stop trying to be friends. Must be some kind of ego-preservation reflex. I’ll need it here. I feed our divorce papers into the scanner, signed but unread, you can have it all. I won’t be needing it.
I see the papers slide out of the tray on your side of the glass and watch you stack them neatly, tapping them against the table, then place them in your bag. You look at me briefly and nudge the keyboard.
The screen refreshes, a sweep of scattered of pixels, then disconnects. The terminal is unkind.
You watch me go through security. Six years for good behavior and you won’t be there to pick me up.