"You're always on your computer anyway when I come over," I am close to tears, frustrated anew with the same old worries. The same old argument.
"I made you some keys but maybe, I will give them to someone on the street because they might appreciate them more." She is angry with me. Angry, because I assume the worst from her. Angry, because she cares, probably more than I will be able to grasp and understand.
We fight. Words are thrown. Silence fuels my anger. I storm up the stairs of her (our old) apartment. I have brought her frozen yogurt upon request. As I round the corner of the stairwell it slaps my calves, leaving wet, splotchy, drips of condensation. I open the door and an icy blast of air conditioned air smacks me in the face.
I open my mouth to speak and she gets up from the couch and hugs me. My anger disappears without a trace, "I've missed you."
She responds, "I still hate your haircut."
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