A box sits in the hall like a hostage. We all walk past it. Someone ordered something filthy or expensive, waiting for an empty house.
Tag: pride
Hinting is not mystery. It is cowardice with better lighting. I would rather a blunt no than a man performing confusion all week long here.
Nice is manners in public. Kind is what he does when nobody is watching and you need a lift, not just some cheap little compliment.
I can calculate it in a second. Asking for it is the bit that shrinks me. Pride and rent should not share a table anyway.
Drinks, cab, extra pizza, the top I did not need. My maths degree arrives far too late, usually only after the card has already gone.
Unavailable is not mysterious. It is unpaid labour I do in my head. If he wanted to, that message would already be sitting right there.
Numbers I can do. People I romanticise. That is why the spreadsheet looks adult and my Friday looks like a dare I already accepted tonight.
I put my card down because I could. His whole face changed. Some men only like cocky until the bill proves you need no rescuing.
Nice people go quiet. The group chat dries right up. Then the money leaves and we are mates again. Poverty makes all our manners seasonal.
A man lists bodies and he is experienced. I do the same and I need saving. That double standard is older than my bloody rent.