“Doesn’t seem like you’re struggling.” I remarked.
“Perhaps not like that. But as far as sympathy and sensitivity, I’ve been told I can come off rather…”
“Harsh?”
“Thanks.” He frowned. “But yes.”
“You are harsh.”
“I don’t intend to be.” He defended.
“I don’t think you do, I just think you’re incredibly direct and most people don’t know how to take that.”
“I suppose not.” He grumbled. Walking away. He rounded the kitchen bar. “You hungry?”
Starving.
“No.” I said slowly. “I’m okay.”
My stomach gave a drawn-out growl in objection. The mere idea of food making it holler. I tried to recall what I’d eaten earlier today and realized I hadn’t.
It’s been a weird day.
He leaned across the counter. Propping his chin on his palm to give me a pointed green-eyed stare.
