If Love Is the Answer, Could You Rephrase the Question?
Chapter Four
"What the fuck are you doing here?"
Great way to start off a conversation, but I was still suffering from "this morning couldn't get any worse" - and then it just got a whole lot worse. On a normal morning, and if it had been a normal person standing there, spiting fire and moaning about a broken hand, I would have helped said person and maybe even called an ambulance - just to come across as a nice young lady
"Firstly, you broke my hand" he held onto his hand as if it was worth a million, and as if it was made out of crystal "and secondly, I came to tell you "Sorry" but I guess I don't need to do that now"
I had already worked up a pretty good line of insults that would make his skin crawl, and maybe realize that hunting me down and knocking on my door hadn't been the idea of his life. However, with a bloody hand (even though it really wasn't my fault) that looked like it hurt, and the sincere tone in his voice made me re-think and even force a smile (!) between sharply pressed lips.
"Ah-uh, I'm sorry about the hand" I really tried to sound sincere because he actually hadn't been as half-assy as I thought he would be and I had sort of hoped he would so that I wouldn't feel bad about yelling at him for.. being here
"Still haven't answered my question though" I reminded him
"Oh" and then he fell quiet.
It's always funny to look at people when they are trying to figure out how to word things; or just what to say. It's like you can see the brain working; and he was no exception. Or maybe he was just faking it, you know, to get more pity because of his hand. My cup of pity for others had already been emptied. After all, he wasn't the one who was all over the biggest newspaper in London, nor had his door been bloodstained (well, all though very little I still had to repaint to keep people from thinking I was a mass-murderer) -- I had rights, too. Like, the right to not be stalked by bad actors with nice hair. ... Not that I thought his hair was nice ...
"I came to apologize, I told you that" he could see I was about to fire back as he held up the injured hand and smiled "Yeah, Calm down" his american accent said "calm" funnily, I noted, but kept my mouth shut.
"I was an asshole last night, and well, after what we both woke up to this morning I feel like I need to make up for it. Why don't you tag along with me to get my hand checked, then lets go get some coffee, OK?"
For some reason, I agreed.
It just felt like a nice-girl thing to do.
Great way to start off a conversation, but I was still suffering from "this morning couldn't get any worse" - and then it just got a whole lot worse. On a normal morning, and if it had been a normal person standing there, spiting fire and moaning about a broken hand, I would have helped said person and maybe even called an ambulance - just to come across as a nice young lady
"Firstly, you broke my hand" he held onto his hand as if it was worth a million, and as if it was made out of crystal "and secondly, I came to tell you "Sorry" but I guess I don't need to do that now"
I had already worked up a pretty good line of insults that would make his skin crawl, and maybe realize that hunting me down and knocking on my door hadn't been the idea of his life. However, with a bloody hand (even though it really wasn't my fault) that looked like it hurt, and the sincere tone in his voice made me re-think and even force a smile (!) between sharply pressed lips.
"Ah-uh, I'm sorry about the hand" I really tried to sound sincere because he actually hadn't been as half-assy as I thought he would be and I had sort of hoped he would so that I wouldn't feel bad about yelling at him for.. being here
"Still haven't answered my question though" I reminded him
"Oh" and then he fell quiet.
It's always funny to look at people when they are trying to figure out how to word things; or just what to say. It's like you can see the brain working; and he was no exception. Or maybe he was just faking it, you know, to get more pity because of his hand. My cup of pity for others had already been emptied. After all, he wasn't the one who was all over the biggest newspaper in London, nor had his door been bloodstained (well, all though very little I still had to repaint to keep people from thinking I was a mass-murderer) -- I had rights, too. Like, the right to not be stalked by bad actors with nice hair. ... Not that I thought his hair was nice ...
"I came to apologize, I told you that" he could see I was about to fire back as he held up the injured hand and smiled "Yeah, Calm down" his american accent said "calm" funnily, I noted, but kept my mouth shut.
"I was an asshole last night, and well, after what we both woke up to this morning I feel like I need to make up for it. Why don't you tag along with me to get my hand checked, then lets go get some coffee, OK?"
For some reason, I agreed.
It just felt like a nice-girl thing to do.