Stepping Slowly
By Shira B., Cambridge, MA
(More by this author »)
“For God’s sake, can you at least try to be careful? This is a rocky path. I don’t want your death on my hands.”
“I’m okay.”
“Now you are, but you won’t be once you lose a limb. Step slowly. There’s no rush.”
“You’re the one who’s rushing.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not. You’re always rushing, always going here or there, always in a hurry.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Everyone’s like that.”
“Then everyone’s always rushing.”
“Stupid kid. You just feel left out because you’re not normal like everyone else.”
“Fine, I’m not normal. I don’t care.”
“You always say that – I don’t care, I don’t care.”
“Well, I don’t. I don’t care and I’m sick and I’m tired and my feet hurt.”
“Stop whining. I hate it.”
“I don’t care if you hate me.”
“I never said hated you. I said I hated the whining.”
“So you don’t hate me?”
“Of course I don’t, stupid.”
“Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For loving me.”
“I never said I loved you, either.”
“But you do, don’t you?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter anyway. Stop being such an idiot.”
“I love you too.”
“Oh. Thanks. Are you okay back there? Stepping slowly?”
“I’m okay.”
“Okay. Okay.”
|
