I should refuse on principle.
“Go on.”
“Do you ever wish it didn’t matter so much?”
I look at the recorder, then at him. “What?”
“Being first. Being watched. Being the example. Do you ever wish you could just do the job without it meaning anything beyond the job?”
My throat closes before I am ready for it.
I hate that.
I hate that he sees the answer before I give it.
“Yes,” I say.
The word is smaller than I intend.
He does not move.
“Yes,” I repeat, because the first one was not enough. “Sometimes. Of course. I’m proud of it. I know it matters. I want girls to walk into stations and see women in charge and think that’s normal. I want younger women in the service to know there is space for them. I wantall of that.”
I press my thumb against the edge of the desk.
“But sometimes I would like to be allowed an ordinary bad day. Or an ordinary good one. Sometimes I would like not to be inspirational before breakfast. Sometimes I would like to be tired without it being a statement, firm without being a stereotype, proud without having to make it palatable.”
He is not writing now.
“Is that too much?” I ask, then immediately hate that I have asked.
“No,” he says. “It’s not.”
The softness in his voice is not pity.
I do not know what to do with it.
So I look away.
Outside the office, Kev laughs at something, loud and sudden, and the sound breaks the moment enough for me to breathe properly.
AJ reaches for his pen again, but he does not write.
“Can I ask something slightly less operational?”
I shrug. In for a penny in for a pound, I guess.
“The hours. The call-outs. The things you carry home. I’m trying to understand what the job asks of people beyond the station.”
“That wasn’t a question.”
“No.” His thumb moves along the edge of his notebook. “I suppose the question is whether there’s someone at home who has to live with that too.”
I look at him for a second too long.
“Are you asking whether I have a partner?”
His pen stills.
