[ summer rainault ]
“You didn’t want to see me before … before,” she mumbled. “You didn’t even want to talk to me. I figured that hadn’t changed.” She pushed her tray away a little. Her guts were too churned up now to eat; she’d just choke on it. Linking her hands together, she put them over her eyes. “Maybe I’m not mature enough. I guess that makes you better than me.”
”I’m still not interested in talking, that hasn’t changed.”
When she broke eye contact, his gaze turned down to his meal. He had been almost finished when she arrived not a moment ago, but after seeing her, he wasn’t feeling particularly hungry, which made the food seem to grow in volume. It had been instilled in him as a young child to finish every morsel of food on his plate. Over a decade had passed since then but old habits died hard so he forked a small piece and began to chew.
A strained silence fell between them. She didn’t want to just get up and leave — for one thing, that would be absurdly wasteful. Besides, leaving felt like she was letting him drive her off, and her pride wouldn’t allow that. He would have to leave first. She stared at her ereader instead, not turning pages and hardly seeing the words until the screensaver kicked in.
Surreptitiously, she sneaked glances at him. He still looked the same — she didn’t know why she thought he would look different. Her throat ached, and sternly she swallowed back tears. She wasn’t going to let him see her cry.