He says you’re a good for nothing chic.
He calls you a blood sucking daughter of a female dog.
You’re an ingrate, he says.
You can’t be trusted.
You are unbelievable.
How dare you? He asks.
You played with my heart, he says.
You sigh.
He wears a look of disgust and disappointment.
This is ludicrous, he adds.
You lower your voice. The voice that drew him to you.
“Babe,” you say.
I’m not a bad girl.
I’m not a player.
I’m not an idiot.
It’s not what you think.
He shrugs.
So what is it? Does this look like a children’s story to you? Uh?
He breathes heavily.
Is this a collection of children’s stories? Tell me. Tell me. (Two days ago, you claimed you were sending a draft of some children’s stories to your editor, a man called John.)
You see the pace of his heartbeat through his shirt.
You place your hands on your waist. You drop your head and then raise them to see the vein that’s standing out on his forehead. You let your hands free.
Yes, you say. That’s a collection of stories.
Children’s stories? (They were deep romantic texts. John surely has a grip on words. He isn’t an editor. He is your secret bae at work.)
“No,” you respond. “They are my private stories.”
And that’s how you lose him. He walks away.
