Excuse me, Miss are these Yours?

A and I agree, this is ridiculous.

How horrible though is it that that's all there is? Damned Mother Teresa.

I know what I'm seeing here, though, oh, J. You remind me of C; the same. I feel like you meet the same people over and over again in life.

Touching all the lace in my dresser, I worked so hard to buy it; something you've never had to worry about, you wouldn't understand. For a moment, I was embarrassed of my apparent poverty all over your face. I wanted you out. The room was foggy, I felt dizzy.

Then you looked at me, smirked. I read it.

"You want them dependent," you told me in the cab, sizing up my reaction.

I couldn't believe what I had seen, the moment frozen in time. How I got up those stairs I'll never know, falling out of my shoes.

In a way, I'm glad we didn't do anything. It gives this situation a new tension; a world of possibility behind what I know now is nearly inevitable. You and I will meet in the way, and it will just happen.

You disgust me in a way I find irresistable. You excite me with the stories you told, peppered with insults for me to hear of course.

"You know these Irish girls," you told him in the cab. "Fiesty. They like to make a scene."

I certainly was not going to buy into your baiting. I can hit back, I see you didn't expect it, but it gets you, doesn't it?

Did I hurt you or you hurt me? Who knows. Who cares! You and I though, we must do something about this. I want to. Understand, I want to.