I met my ex fiance last night at a restaurant we used to frequent when we didn’t feel like cooking. We were reviewing the papers, beside one another, and I was chewing on the knuckle of my index finger.
How is it so hard to close a bank account? I muttered.
Hey, he whispered, reaching over to pull my hand from my face. You don’t have to take it out on the finger.
I never got it y’know, he paused. Until the end that is.
He sighed. I wish I’d known that 90% of the time you were chewing your finger was because you were actually just pissed off at me and not saying it.
I looked at him. That’s not really true, G.
It’s pretty true.
I smiled. Sometimes, I was just hungry.
He looked up from the papers.
I’m serious, I said, as his face broke into a wide grin.
He held it as the Brussels Sprouts arrived to the table.
Is that so? He said, as he pushed back our drinks to allow for the food.
I looked down to the Brussels Sprout.
And then to the papers, where a dollop of grease had smeared the page we read.
Yes, I said, brushing the grease. Sometimes, I really was just hungry.
And I’m sorry I didn’t clarify that enough.
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