Torture

She pauses in her work to take a breath. It's quite shaky, the way breath tends to be when one is under great stress. It's understandable. As I continue to observe her I notice that not only is it shaky, now it's caught in her throat. Another telltale sign that it will come soon. Her bottom lip doesn't tremble so much as twitch. She has good control, this one, and stops the motion as soon as it starts without even biting her lip. A glance to her left and I know there's no chance now. Her eyes fall on the empty street and her breath comes out in a sort of backwards hiccup. The first sob. It's here, but there's still nothing I can do. I'm condemned to watch as the 17 others follow. I've discovered that counting them distracts me a bit from my constant self-loathing. But it's back again as I watch the girl I loved smooth her ironed shirt and wipe the tears from her cheeks. The girl I love, I correct myself as she returns to her task. Just as loathing can continue past death, so can love.