Leaving The Nest

She was packing when he got home. “What’s this?”

“I’m going.”



“Awfully sunny in L.A.” He sat on the edge of the bed, arms folded, prepared to talk it out. “Maybe reconsider?”

“Fuck off.”

“If you would just calm down and—”

“No really,” she spun suddenly, pointed a finger trembling with rage at the bridge of his nose. “Fuck off.”

He shrugged, got up, took off his suit-jacket. “How about one more for the road then?” When he turned again, she was inches from him, fangs out, eyes like pinholes, hissing. “I can’t tell, is that a ‘yes’?”

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