Hate Should Be A Hockey Term
Fingers shaking, I jammed them in, opened Spotify, hit Taylor Swift on shuffle.
But before the first note, the sounds sharpened.
Headboard thumping now. Relentless.
Her cry—sharp, desperate.
His voice, clear as a blade through the drywall:
“Come on, baby… louder.”
Then, deliberate, mocking, just for me:
“Thin walls.”
Motherfucker.
I cranked the volume until my eardrums ached.
But even over the music, I could still feel the rhythm vibrating through the mattress.
I hated him.
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