“Yes, it matters, goddammit!” He throws the glass he had collected to the floor, and I’m thankful I don’t see red all over his hands. “Everything’s slipping through my fingers. Summer’s almost over, and you still want to get rid of the house, and I have no idea what that means for you and me, and I can’t even salvage this fucking photograph!” I become immobile. That’s the last thing I expected to come out of his mouth, and I’m not sure what to make of it. I end up saying, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.”
