⊰ 17.5 ⊱ The Cost of Pride

⊰ Marcel ⊱

With my chin tucked between my thumb and index finger, I brush the underside of my jaw aimlessly as I lean back into the brown leather chair of the parlor. My elbow rests on the armrest, the other positioned at my hip as I hold a half-empty glass of scotch on my lap. I tap my index finger against the rim of my glass, my attention drawn between the sound of the distant clinking and my thoughts.

Why did it get to me? How did she get to me?

There aren’t very many things that I care about in this world.

Well, there aren’t very many people that I care about enough to react to, let alone enough to send me into a blind rage.

I crossed a line.

“Marcel, please…”

I’m pulled out of my thoughts by the hysterical Latina lowering herself to her knees before me. It seems that as of late, on her knees is the only way she’s able to hold my attention for longer than the few seconds of what feels like a long minute.

That’s the beauty of relentlessness: it’s either admirable or a nuisa