Not twice, nor not over the sculpture. Not from the heart of a loved one. Did he not care for what? Not for flaky behavior.
Not for free groceries. But for everything else. For the tired single mom. For the heartbroken teenager. For the abused. And the downtrodden.
But nothing else give these words of tired dimension a meaning. They have none. My nose could feel the scarred tissue closing the airway tight. The pressing aggressive sensation on my nostrils has become rebarbative. The fingers pressing them shut could belong to the man whose torn blue stained t-shirt became my blindfold.
The chair creaked every time I struggled for breathe. My gravelly rasps drawing the disdain of at least of my accuser. His fingers squeeze with what appears ravenous zeal as I try cough up my spleen.