One Leg at a Time

If irritation were tangible, like sweat, it would have been gushing from her pores. “You… hate… everything,” she said, and her fingers clenched and twitched in a way that made me think she was imagining my throat between them. I backed away a few steps.

“Well, yeah. But if people just made normal pants that didn’t suck, it wouldn’t be such a problem,” I grumbled.

After a moment of uncomfortable glaring, her shoulders drooped, and she sighed, defeated. “Yeah. That’s the problem,” was all she said. I’m pretty sure it was smarter of me not to ask.

Apple Pie

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