“I wish you’d write something about me,” she said, almost yelling from the kitchen. He knew she didn’t mean to yell, but only wanted to be heard above the running water and the music he had playing.
He thought about asking if she even read what he wrote, and how, if she had, she’d know that most things were about her, and him, but not in the way that she wanted them to be.
But that wouldn’t help him finish writing this line. Would move him away from the moment. Would pull him further from what he wanted to say.