Chris threw his hands up, “What can I say?,”
Tasha bit her tongue. This was an old argument, “Say nothing; I don’t need your help,” she picked herself up, away from the toilet bowl, spitting one last time before she flushed.
“Here, lemme,” Chris put his hand out.
“Don’t …” Tasha shook her head, and put her hand up, not looking at him. “Just don’t,”
She stood straight, stretching her back, adjusting the bandanna on her head, and she wiped away a tear.
Chris sniffed, and fidgeted with the faucet, “You can’t just shut me out, Tasha,”
“I can’t just let you in either, can I?”
“Why not? I hurt too,” he clamped down, clenching his jaw; an attempt to shut himself up.
“You can never understand, THIS!” Tasha removed her bandanna, showing her bald head, “You will never understand what it’s like to feel sick ALL. THE TIME.”
She tore open her blouse, her left breast accompanied by scars on the right. Chris closed his eyes, “And to see you turn away like that. THAT hurts!”
She stormed away.
Chris, now understood: ALONE.

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