she simply stares up at me with that frustratingly indistinguishable look I’ve seen her wear countless times. Her eyes track my movements as I grab her shampoo from the floor and squirt it into my palm. I can’t stand that I don’t know what’s going through her head. She should run. I wouldn’t even blame her for it. Of course, I’d chase her. But at least then I would know she possessed some semblance of self-preservation.
