“What would you like to become when you’d grow up?”
“Happy.”
“Have you?”
“I haven’t.”
“Why?” she says drifting her smoke towards my face.
“I don’t know. Things just haven’t worked for me. I am looking for a bigger knife. In front of me, there’s a pile of leftovers. My eyes begin to water.
“Sorry”, she said, “I didn’t …”
“It’s alright.”
She stands up and goes to set the table. I’m still wiping my tears.
That onion ripped my soul out.