Could You Pass the Salt?

He struggled to rest on his elbows, mostly out of surprise. He shook his head, smirk on his face. “Bold move chica.” My eyes narrowed.
“Don’t try anything funny,” I threatened.
“Oh, I don’t have to,” he fired back. “Like I said, I got tons of, how you say, backup, all in and around this square.” He struggled to his feet.
I looked into his dark eyes, looking for a hint. “I hate to rain on your parade, but you haven’t a soul in the world to turn to.” He was shocked I had read his expression so clearly. There’s another wound reopened, I thought.
“Alright bella, you got me. I don’t have, as you said, a soul in the world,” he admitted. I nodded, satisfied. Confession is the salt on pride’s wound, this I knew for a fact.
Then he grinned in that way that makes me shudder. “At least,” he added, “not yet.”
What on earth is he talking about?! I wondered. In those four words, he not only nicked my own pride, but also made me ask for him to pass the salt.

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