When he found he was able to speak again, the first words out of his mouth were "Dear God, what happened to your hair?"
She replied in a voice roughened by cigarettes and rum. "You've got eyes, pop star, use 'em. I dyed it."
"But…your hair was so pretty."
She raised her eyebrows. "Pretty?"
He knew he was digging the ditch deeper, but continued. "Yes, it was pretty. You shouldn't re-dye it."
She crossed her arms. "Fuck you."
About to respond, he was distracted by a frightening new discovery. "Mitchie,"
"Michelle!" she snapped, hating how her name on his tongue twisted the knife in her heart.
"Michelle," he corrected "what the hell is that on your arm?"
She dropped her arms to her sides but he grabbed them.
"Let go." She didn't sound angry, but her voice was menacing and her eyes glared.
"Not until you explain these," he growled.
"They're scars," she spat. "They usually form after injury."
"I know that, Michelle. What I want to know is how you got injured."
At this, her mouth twisted into an almost rueful smirk.
"Well," she replied "that's convenient, considering you were there for the injury."
He stared at her and tried to remember when she had ever sliced her arm open in his presence.
"Feeling a bit slow today, are we? Fine, I'll remind you." Her eyes hardened and her smirk disappeared. "I believe the photo album's at my house. Come by after an hour."
"No, I will come over now," he snapped. "And you can explain why you felt all this necessary."
Grudgingly accepting that it would be faster to agree, she walked out of the courtyard. When she heard no footsteps, she yelled without turning around "Are you coming or not?"
He ran after her, catching her at the gate. "Thanks for mentioning you were going to leave right now."
"If you're going to be around me, you'll have to keep up, pop star. And you're paying your own damn cab fare."