“WHY ARE YOU SO ANGRY?” She asked me.
We were sitting on a green park bench, and she looked so anxious and so pretty. I’d known her for three weeks.
“That guy is so fake,” I said. “He’s a phony. How can you like that? He looks so generic and he’s not cool and he never will be. He’ll never like good music or good books. Who cares if he has a fucking car? He’s not real. He doesn’t have a soul.”
“I wasn’t just talking about right now, Jaime,” she said. “I was asking why you’re so angry all the time?”
She threw her arms into the air. “Oh my god! Yes, you are! You are an amazing boy. You’re cute and so talented and so fucking sweet. But you’re also the angriest boy I’ve ever met.”
“Fuck you,” I said. “Why don’t you go climb back into his car and listen to that bullshit music and listen to him lie to you? I thought you were better than that.”
“And I thought you were better than this,” she said, before standing up and walking away.
I never saw her again.
And I’ve thought about her every day since that afternoon.