She was two drinks more drunk than the two she’d said she’d drank. She was being mean, avoiding looking at him by staring at the space in the middle of the room. Her breath was caustic.
I haven’t. She said it to the air.
He sighed, heaving himself up. You’ve got work in the morning.
She dragged her gaze to meet his. He stepped forward, toward her. She stumbled towards him. You can fucking talk. Her shirt was scattered with flecks of dry skin and her own spit.
Go to bed, Sophie. He turned to leave the room.
She laughed.
Your on roll with the bitterness stories - this reminds me of who’s afraid of Virginia Woolf..