There’s that voice; the breathless, slightly apologetic tone that makes my stomach sink. I grip the phone against my ear, and feel my cheek turn hot. The words slowly slither around and around the cord, as if hypnotising their way into my psyche. You love that you’ve got me listening.
You’ve always been good with your words. You’d like to think that’s where I got it from. Finding clever little words that mould your imagination to how you envisage yourself to be; accenting the letters that agree with you and smattering calculated dots over all your ‘i’s. All those ‘i’s. There must be hundreds in there, twirling at your approval. You’re a slick automaton, and you’ve perfected your act. I wait for your lips to slice the words that fall like finely cut diamonds; multi-faceted and glittering with all the devastation they are worth.