"He's not so bad," I said, and you spewed out a prepared monologue about how he was, how he is disgusting and selfish and the same as everyone else.
"Well," I started, "I'm a lot like him." You stared at me. "No you aren't."
"We grew up together," I said, "it can't be helped."
You watched him through the window, laughing and conversing, and I watched you watch him, in no hurry to say your piece.
"If you asked him," you said, "he wouldn't put it like that. He'd say you were 'just there', as in, it was all him," here you stood up, "and that's a huge difference. I hope you're never like that."
Outside, they laughed and played, and behind them the light was dim.