Undercover in His Bed
I quipped, trying to lighten the grave atmosphere.
My jibe landed like a balloon in a room full of porcupines. The rigid faces, the pin-drop silence, each one a stark reminder of the severity of this meeting. The laughter that bubbled in my chest faltered, the aftertaste of the joke bitter in my mouth. My smile faded, replaced by a quick, apologetic grimace.
"Go on, please," I urged, my voice barely louder than a whisper. Noting the hard lines of Mr. Abrams' face, I silently made a mental note to avoid any more tasteless jokes.
Bab Populer