Rage

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

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4 Replies to “Rage”

Whatever.

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