Acid

"I'm not asking for perfect," she said, "but it'd be nice if he paid for my cab home, that's all."

"You went over there," I said.

"Yeah."

"And you've done it before?" She didn't say anything. "So he asked and you responded, right? You did what he wanted."

She had been slicing a lime but stopped and didn't look all too thrilled with me. "Point being?" Things got short when she was pissed, pronouns went out the window.

"It's not the first time it happened. You had all the information you needed to make a different decision and you still made the same decision."

"I am holding a knife, Mitchell."

"Fair enough, but..." Yeah, her grip was tight. There was definitely the hint of grinding skin. "You can't expect people to change. And not without asking. People don't have epiphanies, not really. And not people like him."

"And I'm just supposed to know that?" I shrugged, as in, Yes, of course, you should. And when the knife came down and the citric acid shot into my eye, I was willing to give her that little victory.