“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...