“Will you at least look at me when I’m talking to you?” “Do you know how hard it was for me to tell you that? Do you have any idea-” I hear her sharp, angry huff. That is the most petty, ridiculous, immature-” “Weren’t you?” she says again, this time angrily. You were mad at me for having the same ability as you. Instead, I slump forward, rest my hands and forehead against the closed bedroom door. Too tired, no thank you, don’t want to talk. I could be that kind of guy, a Warner kind of guy. I’m right here, right in front of my door. I really don’t want to do this right now. Right now I’m nothing but pain and exhaustion and raw emotion, and I don’t have the bandwidth for another serious conversation. It’s not that I don’t want to talk- I think I might, sort of, want to talk. I can only imagine how they’ll react when they hear what happened at the symposium.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |