"What?" I hissed at the man in front of me, currently going by the name of Terry Sigerson.
He looked up dully. "Oh. Hi. You took your time."
"I couldn't just get up and leave!"
"Speaking of which, we should really be going. Like, now."
"And you thought the best way to tell me that was-"
"Signaling you, yes."
There was a silence, while we both looked at each other. Him, with a sort of bland indifference and me with infuriation. I'd had it with this prick, his stupid know-it-all superiority and his dragging me into things I'd rather keep out of, and the mess he'd made of the flat within a few short days of moving back in after lying to his best friend and everyone who knew him about being dead for three bloody years, and his complete lack of understanding about how much every single day of those three years hurt, even when I wasn't thinking about it, the guilt was still there in the back of my mind, I knew it was irrational, and that just made it worse. How empty and futile everything seemed, how two weeks afterwards, after receiving the prescription for Prozac and confirming my fear that I was losing it…I contemplated downing the whole bottle and just ending it all.
"All right," I said, keeping my voice down with difficulty. "Okay. Fine. I'm leaving, you do whatever you want with the case. I don't care. Bye. Good luck."
I slammed my glass down and walked off. Peoples' heads turned, but I kept going. I looked back, once, because I just couldn't help myself.
He was texting. Texting.