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You sit across the table from me, unsure of what to say. You know I'm upset and you don't know how to react. You offer to pour me coffee. I snap, insisting I can do it myself. Don't dare try to blame me for this; I warned you I was in a bad mood, you were the one who insisted on taking me to breakfast. You were the fool who thought you could make me feel better.

I reach for creamer to put in my coffee, digging into the bottom of the dish for the french vanilla, my favorite. "Look they even have flavored creamer," you say, desperate for conversation. You pick up a hazelnut creamer. "Did you see this one? Do you want this one instead?" You see my stony gaze and realize you've said the wrong thing.

"No, I don't," the venom is evident in my voice. "I just dug to the bottom, past that creamer to get a different one, when really I wanted that one all along." You drop the creamer back in the dish and return to your own coffee.

The waitress comes over and quietly asks if we've decided yet, even she can feel the tension. I flash her a smile and proceed to order. I can feel your eyes on me, wondering how I can be so cruel to you and yet so nice to a complete stranger. I don't care. You place your order and hand her the menu.

Your hand falls in the middle of the table. You leave it there, palm up. I ignore it, drinking my coffee and staring at a mural. Your fingers curl, and uncurl, trying to coax me to hold your hand. I pretend to ignore it while seething on the inside. Giving up, you take a drink and let your hand fall to your lap.

You can't stand the silence anymore. "Anything new in Jacki's life?" A grunted "no" is your only response. "What about with Abby?" My eyes roll and I answer "no" again. You have no interest in either of their lives; you're just grabbing for conversation at this point. "Anything in anyone's life?" You're desperate for conversation; I'm desperate for you to shut up. I shake my head and look anywhere but at you.

Somehow your hand has returned to the table. This time it's not in the middle, it's breached the midway point. You rotate your wrist, clearly trying to draw attention to it. I lean back in the booth. My message is clear, though it's evident you still don't comprehend as your hand inches toward me. Luckily the waitress is back.

She slides the food in front of us and asks if she can get us anything else. I smile charmingly and ensure her that we're fine, ignore any desires that you might have. "This looks wonderful," you say as she walks away. No response is given from me.

You eat your food quickly, taking large, haphazard bites. I take small, calculated bites, my hand moving slowly from the plate to my mouth. "How's your egg?" you asks seconds after I put the first bite in my mouth. I slowly raise my eyes to met your's. "They're fine." You drop egg on your shirt. You glance at me as you clean it up. I pretend to not see and take a bite of my toast.

"What number did you get again?" Forget the fact that you can clearly see what's on my plate, you need to know exactly what house special I have, or so this desperate attempt for conversation would make it seem. "Nine," my answer is short and curt.

I'm given another few moments of blissful silence, before you destroy it again. "What classes do you have today?" I answer the titles of my classes and nothing more. You eyes scan my face. My eyes stare at my plate.

You sigh. Finally you resign and let me eat my breakfast in peace. I hate small talk, you don't know this. I hate hand holding, you don't know this. I don't like you, you don't suspect this. You only think I'm having a bad day. I still remain upon a pedestal in your mind, but one day I'll change that.

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