It’s like everything in her falls, her shoulders, her gaze, even her pride slips, making me regret the words I fired like a missile to ensure it wasn’t my pride that was maimed. “I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t want to waste his time because I’m not sure about cetology anymore.” Whiplash. That’s the only word I can think of to describe the one-eighty of my thoughts and emotions. “What are you talking about?” Her eyes are windows with drapes that are always left open, telling me exactly what she’s feeling and thinking. While I can’t always know why she’s upset or bothered or amused, I can
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