That Decade of Wandering

He looked up from his giant mug of plain, black coffee.

I hate it that you’re so nice. And how you never really say what’s on your mind. You’re not normal, you know. I hate it that people assume. They assume but we’re not even anything. I hate it that you’re so nice. You never tell me that I’ve said something stupid or demeaning when even I know I was wrong. I hate it that people assume and I don’t even know what either of us wants in life…I hate it that you’re so nice.

He looked up from his giant cup of plain, black coffee. But the words didn’t budge from his mouth.

She excused herself, stood up and wrapped her scarf around her neck haphazardly. The words still stood glued in his mouth. She walked out to her car and drove off.

He looked back down at his coffee. He didn’t even like coffee. He’d ordered it more for that aesthetic coffee-shop aura than anything else. The shop’s name was artistically painted onto the top half of the window to his right side. Looking out, he noticed she was waiting for the town’s only stop light to turn green.

“I hate it that you’re so nice.”

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