“Why don’t you take a picture, Reuben?” she hisses.
My eyes widen like I’m being attacked, and like, I mean, I kind of am being attacked. My chest hollows out like it’s making space for a bullet wound and I can feel a swirl of anger bubble to life somewhere beneath it. I mean, what’s her problem? Have I done something to make her so damn hostile? I’m kind of angry with her tone. I’m angry because I don’t understand her and because I want to and because I’m obviously misreading something somehow. That little bit of my parents that lurks deep inside me begins to uncoil. Like some super-argumentative serpent stretching out his larynx for the impending battle. And I open my mouth to tell her that I’m sick of her attitude and that I don’t understand what I’ve done and that I just want to help
