“Stop saying that to me,” she whimpered in a softly, softly, high-pitched voice. While softly, softly crying. Ever so sweetly, silently. Gorgeous, beautiful face, Tyrrhenian tears-swollen eyes, hidden behind artistic hands, with long, elegant, feminine fingers, black painted nails cut short. Cowering in the corner of my living room, sitting on her high heels, hunched, showing gorgeous, beautiful long legs, and fingers, trying to get away from me, from my verbal attack, towering above her, blue mascara running all over her redly pink puffed cheeks. An over-elaborately written dialogue from some stupid American TV comedy she was watching and likes as an additional sound effect to this embarrassing, desperate, domestic, middle-class landscape.
Fightscape. Revengescape. Uglyscape.
A and I were both sober.
Every person with a heart would have felt sorry for her, would have melted. Especially because she had received some really good news earlier in the evening, which had made her so happy.
Every person but me. I gave her some more. Intensified the sound of my voice. No silly American TV comedy to be heard anymore. Just my voice, my frustration, my irrational logic, my shouting, my anger. About nothing. Absolutely chicken shit. Which made me even angrier upon realising.
She cried all the way to her best friend’s house where I dropped her off. Where she got out of the car while I was already driving away. In anger. And frustration. While shouting. I think the door may have caught her leg. Hurt her.
If, for some reason, Husten ever gave, you readers, the impression that he is a nice, friendly, touchy-feely bloke, you hereby stand corrected. All of my friends will agree. Some of my ex’s will most definitely do.
Somehow, it reminds me of what physicist Richard Feynman said at some point during this interview: “Nearly everything is interesting if you go into it deeply enough.”
I am so sorry.
