A result of living
The color of his tie was a pink salmon color, a bright shade reeking of pompous prick. We sat across from each other on identical white couches, staring each other down with faces equal parts amused and defensive. The wedding raged on with a furor, and hundreds of people swirled around us, ambivalent to the charged conversation going on between us. As they ping-ponged between the dance floor and the bar, nobody noticed us sitting opposite each other as if starting a fencing match.
"What exactly do you mean?" I asked him, hoping I was wrong about what he'd just said.
His entire face lit up with a smirk. He explained, "I mean exactly what I said. You've been writing a lot, so you must be reading just as much. That's where you get your topics from, isn't it? Reading other people's stuff."
Ouch. I had handed him another chance to smack me in the face—this time even harder. I couldn't let this guy with a bad case of Napoleon complex belittle me. I had to say something quick or forever hold my peace.
My long earrings swayed as I shook my head in disbelief. I pushed back in my seat and crossed my arms in complete satisfaction at what I was about to say. Pre-comeback smugness. The smirk was now all mine.
"I love to read, but my writing isn't a result of reading—it's a result of living. Speaking of which, I'd better get back to it."
Bam. Mission accomplished. Ego rescued.
I stood up slowly, and he followed suit. I looked down to meet his eyes, pausing for a moment to remind him that I have something he wants: height. And I walked away. Because vodka makes me bitchier than usual.