Pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose with my left index finger, I lowered my right hand so that the cabinet could hide the middle finger I aimed right at Aiden. The fact that I didn’t immediately respond probably made him add, with that same facial expression aimed right at me, “I don’t care what you have to tell them. You still loved her, you just wanted to sock her right in the baby-maker to teach her a lesson-not that I knew from experience or anything. Like having a sister who you wanted to punch right in the ovaries. Which basically showed how amazing the human mind was how you could care about someone but want to slit his or her throat at the same time. Cancel it,” he repeated as if I’d gone deaf the first time he’d said it. The man in question, who was on the verge of either a bloody, imaginary death or a carefully crafted one that involved dish soap, his food, and a long period of time, made a noise from behind the bowl of quinoa salad in front of him, which was big enough to feed a family of four. It’s what my mom used to do to us when we were little and would pout. When the edges of his mouth turned down, got tight, and his brown eyes went heavy lidded, all it made me want to do was stick my finger up his nose. Grumbling only got me the look-that infamous, condescending expression that had gotten Aiden into more than one fight in the past. “Aiden,” I grumbled, even though I knew better. One day long after I quit, so no one would suspect me.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |