She's Mad
“It’s ok,” he meets my worried gaze. “It was worth it,” I run my fingertips along the bandages I had previously applied. “No, silly, go back on the couch now, I mean it,” my words sound harsh but he knows I mean well. He slowly sinks back into the dark cushions, groaning as what I guess is pain shoots through his body. He reminds me of a friend I had, back in school. She would want to fly on her broomstick all day and right through the night; one day she broke her leg. She attempted to fly but, she didn’t want the pain to get ahead of what she loved. Just like Newt.
“What’s for dinner?” I ask, walking into the kitchen greeted by Queenie pondering over a few ingredients.
“I was thinking pasta,” she murmurs. Her eyes are fixed on the container holding the spaghetti, not daring to look away. Not even at me. She’s still mad. “I like pasta,” her words are slow, you can see her tongue on her lips with every word.
“Ok!” I know my speech is quick and I know I must seem guilty, I just want to get out of here before any arguments begin.
“I’m not mad, I already told you,” she murmurs. At this point I’ve already turned around on my heels and am standing in the door way, my hand on the cold, thick wood.
“Ok,”
Sitting by the fire, night slowly creeps in, making the flames the only source of light as sunshine slips away from the cracks in the curtains.
“I’m going out. Pasta is ready in the kitchen, heat it up when you want it,” Queenie announces, walking past the couch. My mouth opens but I’m interrupted with “Don’t ask,” I snap it shut, feeling my throat tighten as the door slams and the sound of heels trudging in the snow echoes through the thin walls of the house.
“Is she mad at us?” Newt finally asks.
“She’s supposedly not, but she’s been known to lie from time to time,”
“She’s mad,”
“Yeah,”
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