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Then she groans and puts a hand over her eyes. “Oh god. This is a disaster.” I whisper, “Or it could be a miracle.” She takes her hand away from her eyes and glares at me in outrage. I say solemnly, “You’re right. Disaster it is. Should I fly into a rage and throw things around the room now, or would you prefer tears? I haven’t cried since I was thirteen years old, though, so I should warn you it might take a while for me to work them up.” This time when she shoves against my chest, I let her push me away. As soon as I roll off her, she pops up and starts to dress, her shaking hands fumbling with her clothes. I sit on the edge of the mattress with my elbows on my knees and watch her. Running away again. Always running away. Maybe she’s right. Maybe this is a disaster. She’s an iceb
- Writer
