I pass her in the hall in Griffith, this person that used to work with me in Kays. She's a lecturer now, I presume, she has that air to her as she walks towards me all busy and carrying.
I am a lecturer too, I reason. Isn't this nice. Sympatico. We've done alright, I reason, I'll say hello.
"Hi Jackie." I give her my friendliest smile.
"Hi..." and she walks straight past me. Rushing, carrying, not stopping.
Maybe she doesn't recognise me? Hardly. We worked together for two years, talked each week, sat down to lunches together.
Maybe she left that part of her life behind forever, that coleslaw-making, customer-friendly, kitchen-toiling part of her old life that she doesn't want to acknowledge.
They may have been her bad times, her 2000 rags to the 2009 riches.
I see her life.
In getting her degree she concludes the pursuit of happyness and takes herself on to a Masters and scholarly glory and, finally, to becoming an academic with hair frizzier than when I first knew her.
Were she to say hello, hold a proper conversation with this relic from the serving days, would the cosmos intervene and launch her back to those dirty fucking dishes?
Probably not. Thinking on it now, not everything is literary, she's just an ignorant bitch.