He pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes to try to relieve the splintering headache.
She bought the damned house brand Earl Grey again. How many fucking times do I need to tell her that I can taste the difference between chemical oranges and real bergamot?
The words swim on the page.
Nothing that’s quite your own. / Yet this is you.
Eliot had it right.
That bitch. Says “You’re in a mood” as though it’s my fault when she keeps buying the cheap tea she knows I hate.
He toys with the letter-opener and looks at her throat.