Connie kissed him at the door. She said, ‘Love you, Babe,’ thinly, like she didn’t want him to resent it. As his taxi drew away she turned. A four-day conference. Patricia would be there, the woman Tom had spent months working closely with on the Solaris-6 project.
‘You’ll love her,’ Tom had told Connie, and yet somehow he’d never got around to introducing them. That didn’t stop it being Patricia-this and Patricia-that each night after work.
It was when he mentioned Patricia’s influential family that Connie recalled Trish McAllister, the bane of her third year ethics class. Trish with her silver spoon and her excuses, scrambling into her masters on the back of a string of special considerations while Connie had been told that the bad back she’d got working night shift shouldn’t stop her sitting exams. There were two sets of rules. Connie just didn’t know how far they reached.
(this is an edited version of the story Classmates, published on this day, 2010. See about small stories about love)