“Yes. You do,” I replied, waiting for a more substantial answer from her, an explanation of some sort.
She shrugged mildly, “Perhaps I’m using my make-up incorrectly.”
I became abruptly exasperated, replying in a heavily sarcastic voice, “Make-up that turns your eyes red? Right, that makes sense.”
She turned around, that defiant look returning to her eyes, “Must be the mascara. I’ll lay off it a few days. It’s probably irritating them.”
My exasperation melted into outright anger. I stood up, almost yelling, “So I must tell you my problems, but you can keep yours a secret?”
She answered quietly, her voice sharp and cold, “You don’t tell me everything.”
“I tell you most everything. Excuse me for keeping the occasional thought to myself,” I protested angrily.
“Oh? What music are you listening to?” her voice was soft but menacing. A challenge.
I gritted my teeth, spitting out the words, “Her Eyes.”
Paige’s breath caught and her eyes filled with tears. She turned away, gripping the counter for support.