eggs and a driver

I didn't open it. I keep coming back to that. The envelope's still on the counter, still sealed, and I let Carly walk past it and ask about it and I said nah. The truth is I don't know what's in it. That's the whole reason. If I open it I'm choosing. If I don't open it I'm still the kind of person who could choose either way. I know that's weak. I know what it looks like from the outside. I don't care what it looks like from the outside.

She landed at eleven and read my face in about two seconds. Lie, she said. Like it was nothing. Like she wasn't even trying. I stood there and let her be right because she was right, and because arguing would've cost more than just admitting it. She made eggs. For a while that was the whole afternoon. Just eggs and the kettle and the singlet hanging on the wall behind us not getting talked about.

Then Briggs. Four thousand views by dinner and a still of my singlet with my name in the caption like I was a stock tip. Carly asked who he was and I said a name I had to learn, which is true and also the kind of true that sounds like nothing. Briggs is the kind of person who watches and writes and never asks. I've been his subject before and I didn't enjoy it the first time.