He thinks he takes from me, and in ways that do not matter, he does.
In reality, of course, I take from him. Much more.
He does not understand symbiosis. Not yet. And when he does, he may be too old to remember me, except perhaps with a shadow of misplaced guilt.
He passes my table, throwing me an uncomfortable smile as he joins his friends; it is over.
The waiter appears, gestures to my foam-flecked coffee cup.
“Are you ready for another?” he says slyly.
I feel the gentle splintering of ice in my veins and nod.
Many thanks to Rochelle for leading the Friday Fictioneers out once again. Click on the frog if you’d like to join us.