A day.

“At times I wonder if you can feel me staring at you.”
“That’s a strange thing to admit to.”
“What?”
“Staring. I mean. At me. And admitting to it.”
“Oh. Well. Do you notice?”

There’s a long heavy pause that hangs in the air, right in the space between our heads. I stare directly at my feet. He stares directly ahead of him. We don’t make eye contact. I’m not sure we ever do. Even in different situation, different places. It’s all the same anyway. We can’t look at each other at the same time. It’s just too much. So we stare at anything else until its safe. Pathetic. So pathetic it induces a desire to grind your teeth until they’re gone or pick at the skin around your nails until you bleed out. It’s enough.

“Of course I fucking notice.”
“Hmmm.”

Some sick satisfaction. Inhale smoke. Exhale. There’s a lack of caring. I wanted him to notice me staring so he knew that I didn’t care that he noticed. A broken head is what lays dumbly on the stump between my shoulders. A dumb, dumb broken goddamn head. Inside of it on the messy blackboard I give a tally mark to the column under my name. Point one for moi. I’m winning the game no one else knew we were playing.

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