“He’s my friend. Don’t talk about him like that.” “Oh, so now you’re talking to me,” he snaps, his face inches from mine. His breath caresses my face; his nose is nearly touching my own. “And I already regret it.” “Don’t fucking be like this.” His tone turns pleading, desperate. “I let you beat me with a fucking arm. What more do you want from me?” “An apology would be sufficient,” I say.
