Love Letters From Hell

12 | olive branch

When I'd seen her drive up, I'd assumed she'd been handling her anger in a similar fashion to me. Nameless, faceless, meaningless. But no, Mira's hair is perfectly intact, different from her usual dead straight look though, curling apart at the edges over the shoulder of her black bleached tie-dye type hoodie, her skin unflushed— her ice cream is melting though.

I tell her that.

"Stop looking at my ice cream," she snaps.

I blink.

"Territorial over sugary goods. Noted."

Mira turns and rests the cardboard tray onto the hood of her car. Her eyes flash at me when she turns back around. I don't bother telling her that that look has very little effect on me tonight, not when it has been haunting me all week.

"Shankar," she says my name slowly. Well, not my name. She never says my name. "Get the fuck off my property."

"Listen—," I say.

"No." She cuts me off entirely.

I give her an impatient look.

"No," she repeats.

"Why are you like this?" I blink at her incredulously.

"No."

I rake a hand through my hair. "Why'd you leave the bloody gate open then, Zahed?"

This time, she smiles.

"It was an experiment, really," Mira explains to me plainly. "I wanted to see if I still wanted to punch you after an entire week. And guess what? It's been a week. I still want to break your nose."

I'm not sure if I should take a cautionary step back or what. I'm a little fucking stupid right now so I remain planted where I am, even as she's smiling at the prospect of breaking my nose.

Should I be prepared to dodge a thrown soft serve?

"Charming," I tell her in response.

Mira rolls her eyes at me. She reaches behind her, picks up her soft serve cup from its tray as she turns back. She's unwrapping a tissue wrapped spoon as she states flatly, "Go away."

But she hasn't made a move to go away either. Instead, she's digging into her ice cream, taking a spoonful into her mouth, pulling the spoon back from between her lips, eyes narrowed on me the entire time, promising bloody murder.

To anyone else, this sight might be comically cute. She's literally not wearing any fucking pants. Her hoodie hangs off her like a big dress, the arms too long on her. Her hair falls over one of her shoulders in uncoordinated waves, like she can't be arsed to brush it. There are bloody gummy bears next to the Oreo crumbs in her cup. Yet, I'm properly threatened as she drops the spoon back into the cup, wary that she might climb back into her car and run me over should she choose.

She fiddles with the end of the spoon, eyes dipping to her cup before they're back on me. She pierces me with that stare. "Didn't you get the message when I threw iced coffee at you, Shankar?"

"I think we both said some things—," I'm replying but she counters, in erupting me once again.

"Yeah," cuts in Mira. "We both said some things. I got your message. You got mine."