Pouting

Ayanna Cambor, the crush of my childhood friend, Dorian Harmon, makes fun of me for being a mute. She purposefully pours melted dark chocolate into my thermos. Then, she howls at the top of her lungs. "As a mute, you can't complain even when you swallow something bitter." Later on, Ayanna takes advantage of the situation by forcing me to stick my tongue out. She insists on making me show everyone whether or not a mute's tongue is different from a regular person's tongue. I look at Dorian instinctively. After all, he has promised me that as long as he's around, he won't let anyone bully me. But he merely shoots me a cold glance. "Just stick your tongue out and show it to Ayanna. It's not anything major to cry over." I can only hold my tears back as I quietly conceal the school transfer application that I've just received. It's true that transferring schools is no big deal. In that case, there's no need for Dorian to know about it.

Extract. " Why are you here?" She asked, staring out the window. She has refused to face him since he entered the room, treating him as if he were a ghost. She was a ghost to everyone but not to him and she wondered why. " Came to see you. Did I come at a bad time?" He asked. With a crooked sigh, she finally turned to face him, revealing a tear streaked face. Anger rose in him. Moving towards him, she muttered through gritted teeth. " Every time is a bad time Ray, don't you understand that?" " I understand if you're angry, I can always come see you tomorrow..." She cut him off. " I don't want you to come see me tomorrow or the day after that! I need you to leave me alone! Stop trying to help me Ray, we both know it's not going to work. I wonder why you even bother. Just go away!" " Why do you keep pushing me away?! I want to help you, why won't you let me?" " Because it's of no use. No one can help me Ray, not even you. And you trying is going to hurt the both of us! Even more than we can ever imagine." She spat, tears clouding in her eyes again. She was always crying and frowning. Never smiled. He never thought she knew what it felt like to smile. " But I love you! I freaking do! Why can't you understand and let me stay?" He yelled, shaking her, tears forming in his eyes at the one girl he loved but keeps pushing him away. " Then hate me. If you truly love me Ray... You would hate me." She growled, staring deep into his eyes. Giving him a choice, to hate or love her...

My hand wraps around his wrist, and I try to break free of his hold. It’s no use, so I just dig my fingers into the tendons there and glare at him. “What the hell’s your problem?” His forearm presses against my sternum as he crowds me more, ice-blue mismatched eyes full of unchecked rage. “You’re my fucking problem. Hockey’s little golden boy, coming out here with your good game tonight, acting like you own the sport.” He’s trying to get under my skin, but it won’t work. Unlike him, I don’t let my temper control me, and I definitely don’t toss hands at the drop of a hat whenever I can’t rein in my feelings. Which is why he doesn’t get the reaction he was hoping for, and I snort out a laugh. “Seriously? It was a compliment. One I meant, so just take it and move the fuck on.” “Move the fuck on?”

On my birthday, I personally prepare 16 dishes. After setting up the candlelight, I open a bottle of red wine. I take a photo and send it to my husband, Eric Sinclair. "I'm working late tonight. Don't wait for me," he replies. I choose to believe him. But after midnight, I notice an Instagram story posted by Shirley Huxley, his secretary. Eric was there with her, dressed in the trench coat I once gave him. They sat side by side in the VIP seat of football stadium where my favorite Super Bowl take place. Entwined in a passionate embrace, they kissed beneath a sea of shimmering lights and the roar of thousands of fans. That game is the one I have always longed to experience with him. I look down at the cold food on the table. Eric's words keep ringing in my head. "I hate kissing." "Marriage is a partnership, not about love and kisses." Though we've been married for ten years, we've never shared a single kiss. Meanwhile, he's out there, kissing Shirley openly and passionately. Despite it all, not a single tear falls from my eyes. The next day, Eric settles into his chair, completely unfazed. "Return the gallery to Shelly," he commands. I nod quietly, saying nothing. Suddenly, Layla Sinclair, my daughter, comes running down the stairs and throws herself into Shirley's arms. "Aunt Shirley, you're my favorite. I don't like Mom!" In that instant, it hits me—the home I devoted my heart and soul to means nothing anymore. It doesn't matter that I've been married to Eric for a decade. Now, all I want is to find myself again. I decide to accept an invitation from the Parisoir School of Fashion Design. From this moment on, I won't wait for them to come home, and I won't look back.

I heard a small "come in" from the other end. Grabbing the knob, I twist it before pushing the door open. My eyes widened as I saw the scene unfold in front of me. Xavier stood there in the room along with a woman whose brown hair ruffled all over the place. Her blood-red lipstick was smudged. She was dressed in a revealing top. Her breast almost spilling out of her dress and extra tight and small skirt as if she'd just come from some club, her arms crossed and her features amused. She looked strangely familiar for some reason, and it took me a while to identify her, but I did. She was the same woman I had bumped into on the market. My eyes swiftly turned to Xavier. He was dressed in a suit identical to the one Xavier wore with the top few buttons open. What caught my eyes the most was the lipstick stain on his neck identical to the one the woman had on. My heart slumped in deep dejection. It wasn't any science- rocket to know what had occurred here before my arrival.

On my wedding day, my groom's sister, Nadia Lawson, wears an elaborate ball gown and comes on stage to snatch the emcee's microphone. Before all the guests, she arrogantly says to me, "Can't you see the princess is here? Why didn't you curtsy and greet me? You deserve to be punished! Get on your knees and prostrate yourself before me as an apology!" My expression sours at her insolence. I turn around only to see the indulgent expressions on her parents' faces. The groom, Bowen Lawson, says dotingly, "We spoiled Nad silly since she was a child. You are her sister-in-law now. Don't make things hard for her." I am so mad that I can't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. The clown thinks she's a princess, asking me to kneel before her? Ridiculous.