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Guest Recluse

"Did you at least remember to bring my charger?" He's clearly angry, his voice startled me away from writing.

"I thought it was in the bag." She sounds like a little girl answering her father. Her eyes are wide and lost.

"What about the speakers?" He challenges as though he already knows the answer.

He glances around the diner at the people pretending not to hear them. We meet eyes. I'm clearly unimpressed.

"You said they were already in the car." Her voice is trembling. They stare at one another.

"You never asked me about them, I'd have told you they weren't." He's insistent, forceful.

"Well I did!" She answers, pleading with him like a little girl avoiding trouble. "You said they were there."

"Well they aren't here." He says as though this is still her fault. Immediately, she withers...

"Fine, I'll drive home and get them. Just start without me." She's about to cry as she snatches the keys.

"There's no need to be upset." He says, calm, collected, and under it all? Smug. Satisfied.

"Well you needed that stuff and I forg-" she counters, reaching to wipe her eyes. Her night is ruined.

"Just calm down. We'll be fine without them." His voice drips with condescension.

Now that he's lathered her up, worked her into tears, it's time to cut her down.

By now she's forgotten that just seconds ago he was being a spoiled child.

Now he's the logical, unemotional man, and she the unreasonable, weeping woman.

...I want to punch that man in the cock. Repeatedly. People suck.

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He glances around the diner at the people pretending not to hear them. We meet eyes. I'm clearly unimpressed.

Checking out the audience for his performance of abuse-as-an-art-form? Wonderful.

If you ever do get the chance to punch him, might I suggest a corkscrew?

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