A pencil is nonchalantly dropped on the desk. It is a cheap bic mechanical pencil; the eraser is gone and the clip is a sick blue green hybrid; the black ink has faded off from months of hard use as my drawing pencil. I pause, then turn to look at him with a quizzical expression.
"You did not have to return it."
"I found it."
I continue rummaging through my backpack.
"Keep it."
Pause.
A shrug and a smile from him; for a moment I see the boy I loved.
"You said you wanted it back."
The boy I loved disappears, and I begin to walk away.
"I said a lot of things."
The pencil is still on the desk and Exit - Stage Left and congratulations Amanda, you're still a fuck up.