around, trying to find him.
I pull out the money from my apron and throw
it on the counter in disgust.
“She gave me twenty euros to make sure you
got the message,” I say, feeling my courage grow
within me.
“You can give it back to her, I don’t want to be
anybody’s bootlicker,” I conclude, raising my
head, straightening my shoulders and faking a self
confidence that I do not feel in this moment, but
that I must show whatever be the cost.
Patrick is silent for a moment with his eyes
fixed on the bill; I turn and go back to the dining
area before tears can start burning my eyes. I pass
by the tables as if nothing has happened,
continuing to sniffle and drying myself with my
sleeve before my tears get plastered onto my
cheeks.
I feel humiliated and I don’t know if it’s right
that I should. I also feel like I’ve been made fun of,
and again, I’m not sure it’s the right emotion for
this situation.
It’s just when it comes to Patrick, I seem to run
through the entire scale of human emotions in a
few seconds. It’s an emotional elevator that leaves
me insecure and unhappy.
This is the effect he has on me and I can’t
permit him to have this control over my emotions
and my life. And if I don’t want to feel this way
anymore, there’s only one thing to do.
