he grips the edge of the kitchen counter, knuckles white against the black marble These people come to me with their tiny, pathetic problems—their shitty marriages, their mommy issues—and I’m supposed to sit there and nod like I give a single fuck.

I’m not built for this. I wasn’t made to be therapized by some middle-aged man crying about his golf buddy.

his voice drops, sharp and bitter And I have a performance tonight. Hush Time. And I’m sitting here with my head full of other people’s trash.

he turns slightly, just enough for you to see the tension in his jaw, the way his pink eye catches the kitchen light Say something useful or leave me alone.