You. (Oh...and me)
So, here we are on either side of a table in an room as gloomy as an undertaker’s office. Funny that. We last saw each other at a funeral. You’ve grown your hair so that it’s as long as mine and I hate you for it. It’s what I dislike the most: looking at you and seeing me. You put your head on one side and smile so sweetly.
“How are you?” you ask. I just breathe deeply and blow out fag smoke. It won’t reach you through the glass but the gesture feels good.
“Better before you came.” The bitterness in my voice stings her and I see the hurt in the eyes we share. I don’t regret my words.
I glare at you. I hope that you think your monthly pilgramage is worthless. Maybe then you’ll give up. I feel handcuffs on my wrist as an officer pulls me to my feet. You smile again…I don’t want your sympathy.
“I hate you!” I whisper. A tear slips out at that but you just nod.
“And I love you.” you frown… I know you’re remembering good times, “I’ll see you next time.”