"Wait. You knew him in high school?" Peter interrupts.
"No." My annoyance is clear in the tightness of my voice. Now that I'm talking, I want to keep going. I want to talk and talk and let my words lead me through this dense, impenetrable forest to some higher plane of understanding.
Peter knows me. He sits back, sipping his coffee amid the soft click of laptop keyboards all around us as I try to make him comprehend something I'm not close to understanding myself.
"So this was… what? His revenge?" Peter asks when I wind down.
"I don't know."
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