![]() ![]() It’s only been five minutes since he sat down, and he’s already turned his side of the booth into his stage. I look at him and wonder if the regret I see in his eyes is a result of disappointing me or if he’s simply acting again. My back meets the booth behind me and I fold my arms across my chest. “What am I supposed to say?” I mumble, resembling a bratty child, rather than the eighteen-year-old adult that I am. I stab the hollow part of an ice cube with my straw, imagining that it’s his head. ![]() “Fallon?” He clears his throat and tries to soften his words, but they still come at me like knives. ![]() His voice causes my grip to tighten around the glass in hopes that it stays in my hand and doesn’t actually end up against the side of his skull. I’m a little shocked, but it’s happening,” he says. There are napkins on the table, but not the good kind that could soak up a lot of blood. The potential for a nice big THUD is there. I wonder what kind of sound it would make if I were to smash this glass against the side of his head. ![]()
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