She doesn't know what he's talking about when he tells her she's doing it wrong. She never knows what he's talking about. You'd get riled up too, wouldn't you? If you had to attempt to explain yourself four or five times? By the third repetition, he was ready to grab her and- and pound her head against the wall. And then he did. And the all-too-familiar look of bewilderment was still plastered across her stupid face, so he did it again. And again. Until her face wasn't a face. Until she wasn't looking at him anymore. Then he wiped his hands carefully on the kitchen towel (because she'd freak if he got any stains on the living room carpet) and left for work.

Etiquetas: thoughts