i slam the door when i walk out the office,
like leaving a mark,
a sign saying
Don't fuck with me.
the message echoes in the corridor as i walk down,
and the writer is there again.
she looks up at me,
smiles again,
scribbles something on the corner of her sheet,
and hands it to me.
You are not my protagonist.
my nose wrinkles.
What the hell was she walking about?
YOU ARE READING
regrets
Short Story[sequel to fat] - we all have our regrets, none are as bad as mine.
