“Weren’t you the one who enacted the no-mingling rule?” She bats her eyelashes, feigning innocence and taking another picture of me. She stands up and changes the position of the flashlights, now aiming them at my face. I don’t squint. Sitting around in a garden with a notebook is emasculating enough. “It’s a statement, not an olive branch.” “In that case, I choose not to address the statement and tramp all over the un-extended olive branch,” she snaps. I get sick pleasure from knowing I hit a nerve. Hate is the closest thing to love you can squeeze out of the unattainable. I hurt her back!
