“So it just, blew up? And the man ran away?” Mia asks curiously, popping a fry into her mouth. I nod, and watch as she adds extra cheese on her food, her greasy fingers touching ketchup bottles and salt shakers. Disgusted, I focus on my food.
It’s a sunny afternoon, and I’m sitting in a bistro, telling my friend Mia about my close encounter with death. She looks at me excitedly, searching for an injury on my face and hands, after glancing at the bandaged hands; she slowly nods and relaxes back into the cushiony seat.
“Yes, how many times have I told you that?” I answer irritated. She opens her mouth to speak, but I beat her to it, answering the question she wanted to ask,” and no, I was not sitting in my car, nor did I see the criminal.” She looks down dejectedly, seconds later her eyes
