The Stenographer

She’d started writing everything down. Our conversations. First just quick notes, but then when she got faster, every single word either of us spoke.

“Because it might be interesting,” she said.

Half those notebooks had to be filled with us complaining about the dishes after washing them the day before. I knew it was really to have a record. Something she could eventually use against me.

We weren’t arguing. But she kept writing everything down no matter how fast I spoke, and I got angry and lashed out.

“Read that back,” I said. “Please. I’d want hear how it sounds.”

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