Sue was bothering me. “We need sponsorship”. I looked at the outside, and felt the loathing emanating from without. “What makes you believe we’ll get any?”, I rebuked, “Aren’t you happy with the slime that we managed?”. Her eyes were of loss, they hid disdain that could be felt. Eyes transmit such data, if one is open to admit. She wouldn’t let go. “Oh, Julienne, you always put us in such lack of danger. Do you think of me as trophy, a fucking still life?”. Yes, I do. In old nights we would rum around the river. I’d suggest that I am the river (“I am the river”). She’d laugh while missing the point I was making. And even then, despite then, I knew. One always knows, if one is open to admit. Anyways, the next morning she was gone and I couldn’t feel my numb fingers while trying every conceivable combination of 9-digit numbers on my telephone.
The loathing from without
