Graffiti Girl // Michael Clifford

|| 20 ||

But time cannot heal what you will never recognize.

«Just A Little Girl» Trading Yesterday*

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"Hey, you ready?" Michael asks when I open the door.

"Yeah," I mumble distractedly. "We're gonna, uh, go somewhere else."

"What?" he asks but I ignore him to step out of the house and close the door behind me.

"Yeah. I just don't, um, wanna be home, right now," I answer.

"Okay..." he says and starts following my brisk steps to my car. "We can go to the warehouse..."

I throw myself in the driver's seat and turn up the heater. "No. No warehouse," I suddenly snap. I see Michael flinch in the corner of my eyes "I want to be somewhere else. Nothing with four walls around me."

"Okay," Mike breathes, obviously just trying to pacify me, at this point. I don't blame him. "We can go anywhere you want."

I just nod and start the car, driving down my street in silence. The only sounds I can hear are the steady breaths of warm air coming out of the fans, the low rumble of the weathered engine, and the smooth but grainy sweeps of the tires pushing off the ground.

"Hey, you okay?" Michael asks after a few minutes.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"You sure? You seem a little frustrated."

"Yes," I breathe. "Just a little stressed."

"Anything I can help with?" he asks warily.

"No," I say before muttering under my breath, "Not unless you can pull two hundred bucks out of thin air."

The car falls silent again, and I focus on calming my heart beats. I take slow and steady breaths, holding it in my chest before breathing the last bit of air out of my lungs. By the time we are about five minutes away, I am able to think straight without edging toward a panic attack.

"Why do you need two hundred dollars?"

Michael's voice makes me jump, having gotten used to the silence and calming my head. I hadn't realized I had said that loud enough for him to hear.

"Don't worry about it," I tell him.

"I mean... That's just a good chunk of cash to be desperate for," he goes on.

"I'm not desperate," I snap, harsher than I should be towards him. He's just trying to be a friend.

"Sorry, I didn't mean it like that. Honest," he quickly stutters out.

I take another deep breath. "I know. Sorry. Just still on edge."

"Seriously, though. I mean, I have some money laying around, if you really need it."

"I don't need charity," I deadpan. "I've managed this for years and I've always figured it out--no donations necessary."

"What do you mean? What do you need two hundred dollars for that you've been doing for years?"

Can't he just drop it? Doesn't he know someone's money troubles is not exactly casual conversation to have with just anybody?

"Is that really your business?" I snap again. This time, he's a tad more deserving of it.

He huffs, frustrated--though I don't see why. He's the one not letting it go.

"You know, it's okay to talk to people. To let them in, just an inch. I've let you pick me apart for a stupid project without blinking an eye--something I'm not known for doing. It'd be nice if I could get a fraction in return. That's kind of how relationships are supposed to work, you know. Not just one sided."