She sank back into the wooden chair, forgetting that this very chair made her back ache. She needed time to process her thoughts before the reality of back pain sank in. The kitchen was eerily dark. She’d failed to reach for the curtains the moment she’d come in the door.

The whistling kettle was soothing her nerves but did nothing to ease the tears filling her eyes. She promised herself she wouldn’t cry. Not there. She preferred to cry in the solace of her own apartment. It was easier to weep here and unknot the tangling barricades in her heart. Besides, she never liked people who cried at work.

Attention seekers, she called them. Everyone had moments when they wanted to cry but pouring out feelings at work left nasty labels like sensitive, depressed, easily upset, anxious, hysterical.

A fat drop escaped her eyelid. She ignored it, unfazed and unembarrassed. The kettle had stopped and her next movements were automatic. A teabag in her favourite mug, hot water in next and then she found a spoon in her utensil drawer and mixed the contents in the mug.

Tea was her best friend, soothing, kind, non-judgemental and it never argued with her. She blew her worries over the steaming cup and went back to the wooden chair.

Today had been awful. The memory was still very vivid in her head, like a nightmare that refused to be forgotten.

She sniffed and wiped her nose along the back of her white work blouse. She hated her life at this very moment. One too many times she’d wished she was the one who adored designers and waltzed across the cosmetics aisle, buying whatever she desired and testing new overpriced products because her wallet was endless.

She would never be mean to the beauty advisors. They were only doing their jobs and would never otherwise stand there in painful heels for long hours with smiles plastered to their faces and make patience their backbone.

People were mean to her loads but she would never do what was done to her today. She wouldn’t have the nerve to return a used lipstick and claim it was unused. Even without her glasses she’d seen where the lipstick had smared. There was no way to resell a used item. She’d refused the refund. The lipstick had been thrown at her, missing her by an inch and insults were hurled. Blind old bat, get me your manager!

Being at the centre of this drama was something she wasn’t paid enough for. Did others forget that sales people didn’t actually have the tolerance they showed? It was a mere mask, a facade, the work face. Trying to calm an incensed individual was tough, brave and foolish all the same.

A fat blotchy tear fell into her lap. She took a small sip of tea.

It wasn’t new, some customers were angry when they couldn’t return something they came in to refund. It was trifle, why did she cry over it?

She had been publically humiliated, called names and the loud-voiced customer had swerved heads