Victoria
I threw my bag at the couch the moment the door closed and it bounced off the cushion and knocked a pillow to the floor and I left it there because it felt appropriate.
"What," I said to the empty apartment, "is wrong with that man."
I sat down hard on the couch and pressed my palms against my face and breathed.
He could not think for himself. That was the problem. He had decided what kind of person I was based on one incident at a bar — one incident, one time, when I had been broke and desperate and had asked a stranger to cover my bill at a place I should never have gone into in the first place — and he had been filing everything I did ever since under that same heading. Opportunistic. Strategic. A type.
And Vanessa. Vanessa who had spent years making my life quietly horrib
