where's your rage ?

if  she  has  to  make  apology  baked goods  for  one  more  neighbor  she's  going  to  kill  him.   she  shoots  him  a  glare  as  she  rifles  through  the  grocery  bags.   it's  a  combination  now.   arguing  with  the  husband  next  door  yesterday.   this  morning,  instead  of  letting  her  politely  tell  the  nice  80-year-old  woman  next  door  that  no,  ryan  wasn't  her  brother,  that  she  was  with  his  ‘dad’,  he  had  to  make  it  obvious.   she's  not  opposed  to  kissing  him  but  she  hadn't  expected  him  to  appear  out  of  nowhere  to  do  it.   nor  did  she  expect  the  lady  to  turn  redder  then  the  tomatoes  in  the  bag  in  front  of  her  and  flee  like  she  was  on  fire.       ❝⠀  i  cannot  believe  you.  i  thought  she  was  going  to  have  a  heart  attack  !  ⠀  ❞      she  huffs.   hops  up  on  the  counter,  then,  grabbing  his  arm  to  tug  him  so  she's  level  with  him.     a  come-to-jesus  moment,  as  she's  begun  to  call  them  with  ryan.   they're  both  plenty  aware  she's  the  strongest  one  in  the  house  now.    

𝙏here's a bittersweetness to the victory. it hangs about the house in the sound of ryan's footsteps going upstairs like a stubborn teenager already halfway convinced he's too old for rules. in annie humming at the coffee pot, barefoot and wearing one of his shirts like it belongs on her more than it ever did him. somewhere along the line they've somehow managed to turn this house into something close to a home. now butcher's got time. time to hear the fridge rattling itself half to death. time to call the prick next door a wanker over six inches of fence. time to end up nose-to-nose with some cunt whose kid's in ryan's class. petty shit. anger's a habit more than a feeling — once it's made a home in a man, it doesn't leave just because the war's over. it just starts looking for smaller places to live.