![]() ![]() My back meets the booth behind me and I fold my arms across my chest. ![]() “What am I supposed to say?” I mumble, resembling a bratty child, rather than the eighteen-year-old adult that I am. I stab the hollow part of an ice cube with my straw, imagining that it’s his head. “Fallon?” He clears his throat and tries to soften his words, but they still come at me like knives. His voice causes my grip to tighten around the glass in hopes that it stays in my hand and doesn’t actually end up against the side of his skull. I’m a little shocked, but it’s happening,” he says. There are napkins on the table, but not the good kind that could soak up a lot of blood. The potential for a nice big THUD is there. I wonder what kind of sound it would make if I were to smash this glass against the side of his head. ![]()
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