Jerome was such a bastard sometimes. He was right, of course, but he was nearly always right. I kept fighting anyway.
I knew he was inside, taking out his aggression on a ten-ounce New York strip steak, and even that pissed me off—because I knew he’d pair it with some sautéed vegetables and leave it, a wrapped plate in the refrigerator, a peace offering I couldn’t talk back to.
Copyright © 2012 Nivair H. Gabriel