Over Coffee

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Where are they? I’m not going to bullshit with you, I’m not going to let you steer me down some fuck-alley — Where are they? Do you have any idea what I could do to you? Do you have any notion of your own safety? You think because we’re in a public place that you’re safe? Hm.

I’m going to back off you now, because I see your own physical safety means little to you, and I respect that. I also hope you respect that what you’re keeping from me will hurt them. You will hurt them. You will ruin their lives. You think you are doing good, but you are sick. You are sick in the place of your mind where people cannot reach you, and if you stay that way for too long, you’ll even think yourself righteous. And that’s the scariest part. There’s a straw in front of me, and there’s not much I’d rather do than somehow get it to stick into your hand that’s relaxing so calmly on the table. You’re not calm. And that’s what I hate most about you. It’s not that you keep them from me. It’s not that you try to hurt me by telling me how wonderful things are. It’s that you pretend to be calm. Pretend. You have such a whole show going on, you believe you’ve got everyone fooled. You actually believe you are calm. You believe you are thinking things through rationally, and no one can convince you otherwise. Short of hurting you in many small ways, I now have to hope you lean in too far to feed the ducks and get side-swiped by a fucking sailboat.

One last time. Where are they?

(Part of ongoing exercises where I ask a short question and don’t stop writing for five minutes. Maybe one day they will be used for a monologue, or something.)

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