The Writer Feels Hurt

He finally sobered up, and gulped down whatever nervousness he had.

“I’d get down on my knees and beg for her forgiveness.”

“Oh? You think that’d repent for it?” I said, making sure I was giving him the iciest glower I could muster.

“I would tell her about everything that I hid so she would understand what was going on.”

“Well, suppose that she didn’t want to hear it?” I asked coolly, laying back with Scooter in my lap.

“Then I’d just make her listen.”

“Really? I didn’t know you could force someone to listen,” I said sarcastically, stroking Scooter to relieve my tension.

“I’m sure that if the secret keeper had a good reason, the writer would listen.”

My hand slightly twitched at the nickname he’d given me.

Part of me was screaming : ‘Jerk, liar, fiend!’

And the other was saying : ‘Hear him out!’

I didn’t conform to either. I could hear heavy footfalls coming up to the door, and I timed my answer with them.

“See? This is the reason the writer has no friends.”

“Brigh! I’m home!”

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