Miniver Cheevy
by Keren Ziv

You wonder if she likes you because you're broken.

She obviously has a Florence Nightingale complex, a strange desire to nurse the sick through ill health and well. She wouldn't have been a widow at such a young age if it were any other way. Cancer! she'd said, bracing herself for your martyrdom comments. Cancer!

And you'd let it slide, because you weren't sure if she'd be pleased or pissed by such a comment, and the only sure way of antagonizing her would be to say something kind. It's what you like about her, the way that you can get under her skin. It's the way that you can nettle her, so to speak, that keeps you intrigued (and that vexes you).

Everybody else in your life ignores the little unpleasantries that you toss their way -- or tries to. Your caustic comments and acidic abuse slide off of them like water off of so many ducks. With her, though, she cares. If you could only under why she cared, you'd be a little more comfortable with this half-relationship that you've formed.

As it is, you lose a life on your Nintendo DS trying to figure her out. You swear, and she walks in the room.

"You kiss your mother with that mouth?" she asks brightly.

It's got to be that the cane's a turn on for her.


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