Patricia's Mouth

Patricia’s mouth. Off-centre, puckered, she shows her displeasure. Hair falls in her face, it smells like vinegar, she conditions it with vinegar.
“I’m sad,” she says, her hand on her hip. I clap my hands lightly. “I’m sorry, it was unavoidable.”
Her mood changes, she grins, it has a knife’s edge.
“I knew it,” she said. “I knew it when you called me.”
And I hate her. Because she knows, she knows fucking everything all the time. So I get my shoes, but she stops me, hands me books, hands me a sweater I gave her, shrunken. And I want to say “, I gave it to you, I don’t want it,” but I take it without a words, pick up my shoes, I don’t want to tie them here, sit on the floor, struggle to get them on like a clown. Patricia stands back a few metres. I give her my hand to shake, she pulls away “, I don’t want to touch you,” she says.
“See you later,” I say, I don’t think. “No you won’t,” she says “, I’ll never write you or call you.” Matter-of-fact, angry. I pull the door towards me until it clicks.