She laughed.
36 freckles split into two camps and occupied either side of her face as her cheeks creased and she laughed at me. 1 freckle did not split, did not yield, did not move. It stayed half a millimeter shy of the apex of the bridge of her nose and stared at me. For that moment, I was that freckle.
“Why are you laughing?”
“Why aren’t you yelling?”
“I don’t yell.”
“I’ve heard you yell.”
“Not tonight you haven’t.”
“Yell at me. I want you to yell.”
“Let me know how that works out for you.”
“Real men yell.”
“It’s 2010. My testosterone has formed a union of one and is currently on strike, sue me.”
“Explains a few things.”
“I’m not a man because I don’t yell at you?”
“I’m kidding. If you really yelled, I’d cry.”
“You yelled.”
“I was trying to mean it.”
“You didn’t mean it?”
“I wanted to. I want to be mad at you. How come I’m never mad at you?”
“Oh you’re mad, you’re just not a yeller. Not at me.”
“So I get mad at you, but I never express it. Now do you see why this is unhealthy?”
And here I thought I dodged-