He likes llamas.
“Llamas are good,” he says.
Mysterious. How mysterious.
She does not approve.
“Llamas are smelly,” she insisted.
He shook his head, but did not bother to reply.
The pause dragged and lengthened into a pregnant silence, full of expectancies.
She does not approve.
“But llamas are smelly,” she repeated, to fill the silence.
His mouth twitched.
She stared.
The clock ticked.
Still, she stared.
The clock tocked.
He turned to leave.
She opened her mouth, as if to say something, but silence triumphed.
He left.
And the clock ticked.
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