72
She gasps in outrage and slaps her open palm on the tabletop. “You t**t! You can’t keep that to yourself!” When I only sip my wine and keep smiling, she glowers at me. “If you don’t start talking, I’ll shoot you with this gun in my boot. I swear, I will.” “No, you won’t.” “Give me one good reason.” “I kept that picture of you from when you first got your braces on when you were fifteen. Remember how that was during your mohawk-and-black-lipstick phase, when you wanted to run away and join the circus to be an emo clown? And you’d been experimenting with facial piercings? You had such cute freckles then, too.” She says flatly, “You know those were zits. And it was a punk contortionist, not a f*****g emo clown. And you told me you threw that photo out!” I sigh dreamily, as if lost in g
- Writer
