Written by: Sunny Jong
He shoots you first. That nasty, bastardly scowl you dreaded because you knew how turbulently the tiny fibrillations in his brows oscillated between rage and resignation - something you could never foretell. You march toward him - his dormant body supinely sprawled across the tuxedo couch - lounging like a king who hadn’t just eaten week-old leftovers because he couldn’t cook for himself, and try not to rub your temples as to visibly reveal the fact that you are about to broach a problem to him. The semantic calculus courses through your head, but your tone can’t quite lend its best self to the words you choose, and they all tumble out of your mouth rather heavy-handedly:
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