It smells like rain, except it isn’t rain. It’s lies. It can’t smell like rain all the time.
‘You’re mistaken,’ he says again. ‘Deluded.’
Words come and go to him like a wet dog shaking itself free of wet. The drops go flying everywhere. It doesn’t matter where, just off, out of the fur.
‘Unavoidable,’ he says. ‘Work. Pressure.’
I am drenched with your words, by your tongue and the shake of your head that sends the wet drops flying at me, into me. Soaking me.
‘I hate being late, too,’ he...