“Don’t you know how busy I am?” I said angrily as I stormed into his room. He didn’t even look up, just carried on sketching with infuriating calmness.
“Of course I do,” he answered, “I know everything, remember.”
He was sitting on the dusty floor, leaning forward and working with precise strokes using a pencil on the top sheet of a stack of white drawing paper. It would have been so easy to just kick him over, and so damned tempting.
“Don’t even consider that,” he said, “you know what a nasty temper I have.”
I hadn’t even moved, hadn’t said a word, but he knew anyway. That did nothing for my own temper, which unlike his I preferred to keep under control.
“Well if you know how busy I am, why won’t you let me-”
“Have any peace?” he said with a nasty chuckle. “Is it my fault you feel compelled to dog my heels with your incessant anxious queries. You get on with your work if you want, you’ll feel better for that.”
He stopped sketching for a moment and turned to look at me, his eyes gleaming in the dim light, a mocking smile on his face.
“Why not just get on with things?” he asked, “Leave me to my own devices.”
I wanted to stamp my feet, or rage, or call him names, or slap him (but I’d better not, he did indeed have such a temper..) but I didn’t.
“Just.. give me a little peace to get things done,” I said, almost pleading.
“You get busy, I get busy,” he replied in a sing-song voice, “that’s just the way it is. Run along now.”
I slammed the door behind me as I left and had almost reached the bottom of the stairs before I heard him laughing.
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