“Why would you stop when I died?”
“I did not always yell at him!”
Krista raises her hand.
“You’re yelling at him right now.”
“Well—he—”
Mickey chokes out six
or seven
incoherent syllables
before lurching to his feet.
He stomps away,
down the boardwalk.
Fast enough for drama
but slow enough to follow.
“Sorry.”
I hunch my shoulders
as Krista stands, sighing.
“Stop saying ‘sorry.’
Mickey should be saying that.”
“He won’t.”
I get up to join her.
“He’s a douche.”
“Your turn to talk,”
Krista tells me
as we catch up to Mickey
down the boardwalk.
The first question is easy.
“Ask him why he hates me.”
She rolls her eyes,
but does as I ask.
“I don’t hate him,” he says,