Staring. Working furiously and staring.
“Ease off. You’ve done enough.”
I stop, I just stare.
“Can you try to breathe? Please? This isn’t healthy.”
I stare.
“Your foot is bleeding.”
I was already aware of that. He’s sitting in front of me, rubbing his temples.
“You should be laughing, really. He sucks, SUCKS at metaphors. He really ought to stop trying. You were just trying to be playful. Not your fault.”
Snarl.
“Now look, I know what you wanted to write back, and I know you’re seething now because the ‘perfect’ words are still boiling in your brain — and oooh they would have hit their mark! But I also know you and you would have regretted it. Your benign response was fully appropriate.”
I roll my eyes.
“And I’m proud of you.”
Nothing.
He sighs. Looks away, grimaces and looks back, his voice edgy. “We having fun yet Little Girl? Are we? See? This is what happens and now you’re all primed to play on Saturday.”
Nothing.
“Have you reconsidered that at least?”
I nod slightly. No more games. At least not for a while.
“You can stop,” he leans into me. “We can find you some healthy outlets. Your new guy . . . like he said, you’ve already come so far. He gets you, he honestly is working to help you.”
Nothing.
“You’re not wrong for caring; you’re not wrong for being playful.”
Evidently growling makes you breathe. Pity 4 hours and 12 minutes without breathing was nearly a new record for me.
I nod and sit back in my chair, folding my arms.
“Besides,” he’s chuckling now. He takes a breath, his sinister grin opens wide and he begins to laugh loudly — a funny, high, echoing chortle — until he can barely, barely speak. “No really, c’mon, that’s fucking hilarious!!! That was such a weak-ass attempt at haughtily saying,” (his voice goes super high and girly and he holds his arms akimbo) “‘You’re incapable of pushing my buttons anymore,’ . . . I mean, it’s pretty obvious . . . ”
The Grinchlike smile crawls across my face. “. . . I’d done precisely that.”
I’m still staring . . . and now we’re both laughing.
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