The words stick in my throat, ties themselves in knots on my tongue. Hatred courses through my veins turning my blood to ice.
‘I forgive you,’ I say and I stretch my lips upwards, feeling the weight of my cheeks as I hold my smile in place.
‘Still friends?’ Your voice is barely audible above the crowd. I have to lean forward to properly hear, jerking back as our heads accidentally touch. I rub my hair, as if brushing off ants, removing any residue you might have left.
‘Friends.’ I lie.
You leave, swinging the £300 designer bag on your arm. The one of a kind designer bag I have been coveting for weeks. I think of the £40 you paid for it and bile rises.
That’s the last time I ever invite you to a flash sale.
Written for Streams of Consciousness Saturday. Write the first thing that comes to mind following a prompt and post. No editing allowed. The prompt this week was ‘stick.’ I thought it was taking me to a dark place, I was wrong.