Until I Wrote Him
She cleared her throat, over-enunciating as though performing Shakespeare at the Globe Theatre.
“Love isn’t patient, love isn’t kind… it’s fire, and it burns everything it touches.”
She looked at me expectantly, starry-eyed.
I wanted to slide under the table and melt into the floor.
Was this real life?
Was I being forced to quote my own tortured prose like a trained parrot?
“Um.” My voice cracked. “Yes, that… that does sound like something I wrote.”
“It is!” another boy shouted. “Page two seventy-three, right after the betrayal scene! I highlighted it!”