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.

Friday Fictioneers

4 thoughts on “Rage

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