(you can look, but can you see?)
She knew there would be trouble when his face twitched, a tremor scuttling across the surface, predicting the gathering storm. He leapt to his feet, eyes alight, and his face turning scarlet.
“That’s sick,” he squawked. “How could you?”
He flung the story as far from him as he could muster. The sheets shimmied through the air, and scattered across the carpet, landing like wind-blown leaves.
“You’re sick in the head, you are,” he shouted, his fat finger prodding the air, jabbing the words home. “I don’t know why I bother with you. I don’t even know why I even, even,” he scrabbled around, trying to find just the right word to fit his outrage, the most cutting combination of insult and rebuke. “I don’t know why I even talk to you.”
There, that told her. He drew himself up as tall as his paunch would let him, a colossus of righteousness, unshakeable in the face of her depravity. He turned on his heel and strode from the room.
She waited until the door slammed before she began to collect the pages. Her mouth stretched into a grin, but she tried not to laugh out loud, just in case he heard. No need to throw more fuel on the fire. She gathered up the white sheets spidered with her spiky scrawl. It was a good story, this one. She put the pages in order, contentment warming inside. She’d known he wouldn’t like it. He’d inspired it.