“I didn’t say it was bad,” he backtracked, “just weird.”

I couldn’t stand him, with his creamy black eyes and carefree smile.  Everything was a big joke to him, but I liked to take my personal property seriously.  “Thank you for your commentary.  I’ll take those back now.”  When I reached for the notecards – where I’d write little passages throughout the day upon inspiration – he shoved them into the back pocket of his jeans.  There was no way I was reaching back there.

“All I meant was…” his voice trailed off and he stopped smiling, but he was still staring at me as if I were a freak.  I looked down at my feet. This conversation had gotten uncomfortable at record speed.

He sighed.  “It’s like I can read your mind, like you write exactly how you think.”  I didn’t bother questioning him anymore, just smiled wryly and asked politely for my notecards back.  He smiled, too, but the way it changed his entire face was new to me; it wasn’t his trademark sloppy smile, the one everyone knew.  It was a little less wide and a lot less flashy.  I thought, naively, that it looked more genuine.  “I mean… you’re really good, Angie.”

So I stopped smiling and walked off, because the last thing I needed was someone telling me I was “really good” at just writing.

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