He shoved his hand into his pocket and grasped the keys that jangled inside them. Ramming them into the door, he stomped over the threshold into my little square kitchen, assuming I would follow. I didn’t. Slowly, he turned around and stared ominously. “Why don’t you come in so we can talk?” he asked in a chilling voice. I gulped ostentaniously and shivered. “I won’t listen to a word you say until you admit what you’re feeling. Feeling about me.” His face contorted with frustration. His knuckles cracked as he balled up his fists and visibly restrained himself from destroying the china and flower arrangement that I had set out on my small dining table earlier that day. After a minute of deafening silence, he spoke again. This time his demeanor was calm, but I could still see the fire in his eyes; the anger in his soul.