"You chose to leave," she says. Bitterness spits from each tear. Menus are sprawled out on the table. Untouched coffees and creamers opened and scattered.
I feel hot under a fluorescent light of accusation and public interrogation.
"It’s not our fault you don’t have time for anything. You’re stressed, okay fine. But you wanted this."
Her face becomes increasingly askew, hands running through long brown hair with the subconscious habit of nervous movement.
My own tears are doused in alcohol, cloudy and left without names or reason. I choke down what I could say.
Fingers clamp down on my windpipe-the steel restriction of anxiety pricking down the base of my spine.
I did want it. Just not this.