THOSE WHO SUFFER LOVE
Every time we get into a fight about the fucking French girl you say, 'What- are you jealous? You want me all for yourself?'
You are upset by my disdain for you; the fact that I refuse to even tell you what I think is maddening to you. I tell you all the things the others have to say to you about her. I don't say what I have to say. This hurts you more. More, probably, than if I even said it.
We are sitting with your friend in the cafe. I think how funny it is to be drinking tea with two men in suits. Arguing over her is inevitable, but I didn't mean to do it in front of him.
I say, 'I can't remember who it was- Yasmin, maybe- who said to me, "You'd think he could bother to pick someone attractive or interesting or talented."'
Your friend laughs, but you don't.
You say, 'What do you want from me? I'm a sad and lonely man.'
I say, 'Yes, evidently'- you swear.