She'd taken a big bite out of my ego.
"You're a small, dopey, rotten man!" she shouted. "Why are all men so rotten?"
She was the one to talk. As I dodged the contents of the fruit bowl, I reflected on what she'd said. Bruised ego aside, I didn't think I deserved it. Not all of it, anyway.
"You're not exactly Snow Whitte. Who died and left you queen?"
"That's not fair."
But it was. Of all the things I'd ever wanted to say to her, it was the fairest of them all.
ShoeStories™ by Claudia Lynch