A/n: For those out there who still don't understand that speaker does not equal author; this is NOT autobiographical. Jeez. I don't even know what gender the people involved are of. For those who weren't scared off by my aggressive a/n; please let me know how you feel about this piece, I'd love to hear what other people think, seeing as I'm a little unsure of it myself. I even considered putting this in the poetry section, but I suppose it's just verse. Inspired, but not based on, Kate Nash's Foundations.

Almost endearing

You've got that look in your eye.

Again.

It's the kind of look that tells me not to trust you because you're keeping me out on something.
Keeping secrets.

You don't have to tell me; I don't even want to know. I sure as hell don't tell you everything that goes on in my mind, and I'd bet my half of the house I keep more secrets than you do.

And that mine are more interesting.
Far more interesting.

I just know better than to wear them on my face like that.

You prod your breakfast with a spoon, throwing me attention seeking glances which I pointedly ignore.
I've never cared much for the food you prepare. Your porridge tastes like wet, warm cardboard to me.
Even sugar doesn't help.

I flick through the morning paper. This 'news' manages to bore me almost as much as you can.

Sometimes I think you're doing it on purpose.

After a few minutes, you throw the spoon back into your bowl. I'm supposed to look up now, but I don't feel at all inclined to do so.
I just stare at the obituaries;
No one we know.

You had better not start tapping your foot or - ah, you're drumming your fingernails on the table.
I wish you wouldn't.
It really doesn't flatter you.

I take another sip of orange juice and you don't understand passive aggressive.

You've had enough.
You stand up, violently pushing your chair back, as if you are hoping it will tip over and elicit some sort - any sort - of reaction from me.
Which it doesn't.

You grab your coat, round the table and peck me on the cheek. More out of habit than anything else.
I wave you away with a noncommittal hum, rustling the paper as if it were important.

You look at me.
Just a second too long.
Until you get uncomfortable.
Then you slam the door and go to work.

Work

Well, that's really bloody likely!

I almost laugh out loud.

You've got so much more to learn when it comes to secrecy, and still you think I don't suspect a thing.

Really.

It's almost endearing.