He stared at the screen, the cheap fluorescent light of his kitchen making the words look greasy. Hate to story. Not "hate to say," or "hate to tell you." Hate to story. Like the act of storytelling itself was the nuisance. The story was the burden.
He’d sent a similar text to a man named Marcus. "Hate 2 story, but I think ur girl likes me better." Marcus had replied with a single period. Then nothing. Later, Leo learned that Marcus had driven his truck into a retaining wall at 80 miles an hour. The police called it a mechanical failure. Leo, alone in his studio apartment at 2 a.m., called it the end of a story he had started. hate 2 story
Then he deleted the number. He walked into the bedroom where Mira was actually sleeping—because she had come home at 11 p.m., exhausted, smelling of coffee and printer toner. He checked her jewelry box. Both silver hoops were there. He stared at the screen, the cheap fluorescent
He put the phone on the nightstand. He lay down next to Mira, her breath warm against his shoulder. In the dark, he whispered to no one: “Hate to story. But I’m done being the one who starts them.” Like the act of storytelling itself was the nuisance
Now the phone buzzed again.
Or he could let it go.