Eats.
J.K.'s eyes crinkle upon seeing me.
Dinner of healthy Mexican. She glides about her kitchen, deftly dodging my bumbling culinary attempts. As he intervenes, I sit and read terrible poetry aloud, over the slightly less terrible indy music playing from her living room. He leaves, clueless to her anguish. We sit, relate and add brown rice to her salsa. Perfect. She echoes her life coach's words; if only they'd sink in for the both of us. Relief with my admissions. Comforts in our faults. Thank you, A.E.
Sharp retort. I suppress the urge to slap the shit out of you. Probably too much of it to dislodge anyways. But it's okay. This is .. learning to deal with the real world.
Alas.