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Saturday, November 2, 2002Artistic License
You make yourself seem mean,
she said to him.
What are you saying?
he asked.
This stuff makes you look like a monster.
It does not!
he objected, standing up and pounding his fist on the desk.
You see? That is what I'm talking about. You didn't pound
down your fist. You never even stood up. And what table,
anyway?
They sat there for a moment.
You know very well what I mean,
she added.
Yes, I suppose I do.
I suppose you do.
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