souvenir

prose & poetry by chia

bon appétit

Five years later, they were here, sitting across one another, barely speaking at all but at surface they both knew the understanding was there. She wanted him to talk to her, and not the other way around—it has always been the other way around and at this point she thought it unfair, unfair and selfish, so selfish, of Sebastian, but could she blame him? What, so far in her minimal knowledge of him, could be considered as proof that she in fact knew Sebastian enough to say that, in some way, he was being selfish? She was silently corrupting him, not blatantly, but in her mind. She was mad, and getting angrier every second. Deep inside, she wanted to put all the weight on him and accuse him of being distant. If the choice was only up to her, she could just leave him. But she couldn't do that, for how could she be cruel to the person she loves dearly? 

“You know, your coffee’s not getting any hotter,” she spoke in a low but impatient voice, afraid that if she talked louder, she might break him.


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