Travel Reference
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“Painted the room this color. I knew you'd hate it.”
“But why?”
He stared at me a moment, a thin string of drool seeping from the corner of his mouth.
“Because I'm an asshole.”
It was impossible to disagree with him. It really was. But on the other hand, an apology
is an apology.
“Don't worry,” I said, smiling brilliantly. “I absolutely, positively love it.”
If I'd wanted to comfort him, this clearly wasn't the way to go about it. In fact, my for-
giveness appeared to constitute the worst blow of all. His little pug-face crumpled into a
mask of despair and he began to weep.
Michael, who looked pretty unbridled himself, sailed across the room with a jaunty
smile and a spring in his step.
“What does that jerk want now?” he asked, glancing towards Daniel's retreating back.
“Just to tell me he painted our house the wrong color on purpose.”
“You're joking.”
“Nope.”
Michael looked at Daniel, who was slumped over the kitchen counter now, sobbing like
a baby.
“My God, he seems totally wasted. How'd he get drunk so fast?”
I batted my eyes innocently.
“You know, some people just can't hold their liquor.”
Michael nodded appreciatively.
“By the way, where've you been?” he asked.
I gulped hard, searching for a truthful but not too revealing alibi.
“Oh, just throwing out some trash.”
Someday maybe I'd explain.
On second thought, maybe not.
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