Her fake fingernails irritated me to no end. Their shiny, plastic whites with rounded squares glued onto her stubby fingers sent shivers down my spine and my fingertips yearn for pliers.
It was not, however, her fingernails that really dug under my skin. It was the lilt of her voice.
I’ve done it myself, uttered words in a cutesy manor. Perhaps that’s what really gets to me.
She reminds me of sugar sweet fairy floss. It was like looking in a mirror to what I could have become.

Her hair twirling around his ear as she lent up to giggle into it made me want to scream in frustration. The orange juice from the bottle started to have a sour taste as I sipped from it.

My elbows scraped the counter as I rested my head between my hands.
The dull ache behind my eyes from the light blistered reality into sharp irritability.

A church. Old. Cold and holy. Smelling of scared smoke and purifying prayers.
Calm.

The click of a CD hitting the counter brought my head up away from the chapel.
Giggling, plastic nails drumming, impatient eyes waiting.

A door chimes and they leave, hand in hand.
The orange juice isn’t so sour.