Slips and Sparks
It happened on a Friday evening, after a week that had left Amanda bone-tired and brittle-edged. The rain hadn't let up in days, drizzling from gray skies in a relentless, half-hearted way that soaked into everything—your shoes, your jacket, your mood.
Tony's Diner was half-empty, the fluorescent lights casting a pale sheen over the cracked vinyl booths and worn linoleum floors. Amanda and Angela had claimed their usual table in the back corner, a basket of greasy onion rings between them and two mugs of rapidly cooling coffee.
Angela was animated, hands flying as she recounted a story from earlier that day. "I'm telling you, Amanda," she said, eyes wide with laughter, "this second grader looked me dead in the eye and swore that velociraptors live in the sewer system. Like—with the utmost confidence."
Amanda snorted, covering her mouth with one hand. "Honestly, I believe it."
"Right?" Angela grinned. "I'm just glad he didn't insist on a field trip."
Amanda shook her head, laughter still bubbling in her chest, and without thinking—without checking herself the way she normally would—she said, "God, at least you get excuses with imagination. H used to—"
She stopped, the words sticking sharp in her throat.
Angela froze too, her smile softening into something quieter, steadier.
Amanda stared down at the table, at the way her napkin was already crumpled between her fingers.
She should stop. She should change the subject. She should swallow it down like she always did.
Instead, she heard herself say, voice low and strange, "H used to make excuses for everything. Nothing was ever his fault. Not a missed reservation, not a broken promise, not…"
She hesitated, breath hitching.
"Not me."
Angela didn't speak. She just shifted slightly, enough that her knee brushed Amanda's under the table—a silent reminder: I'm here. I'm listening.
Amanda pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead, willing the tightness in her chest to loosen. "He made me feel like… like if I could just be less—less demanding, less emotional, less… everything—then things would be okay. Then he would love me right."
Angela’s hand moved across the table, slow and deliberate, until her fingers brushed Amanda’s wrist. Not grabbing. Not forcing. Just there. Solid. Steady.
"Amanda," she said, voice rough with something Amanda didn’t dare name, "you were never the problem."
Amanda let out a shaky laugh, bitter at the edges. "You say that like you know."
Angela’s fingers tapped lightly against Amanda’s wrist, a grounding rhythm. "I do know. Because people who love you—really love you—don’t ask you to shrink. They don’t make you feel like you’re a burden just for existing."
Amanda closed her eyes briefly, the weight of those words hitting her harder than she wanted to admit.
When she opened them, Angela was still there, watching her with an intensity that made Amanda’s breath catch. No pity. No impatience. Just… fierce, stubborn belief.
"I'm sorry," Amanda said, her voice cracking. "I didn't mean to dump this on you."
Angela shook her head immediately. "You’re not dumping anything. You're… trusting me."
Amanda stared at her, throat thick.
Angela smiled, small and fierce. "And for the record? I’m honored."
For a long moment, they just sat there, the rain tapping against the windows, the diner humming quietly around them.
Amanda wanted to say something—anything—to break the moment before it swallowed her whole.
Instead, she found herself whispering, "I don't know how to do this."
Angela’s smile softened. "That's okay."
Amanda laughed again, watery and tired. "You’re annoyingly good at this."
Angela leaned back in the booth, arms stretched lazily across the seat. "Years of practice. I was born annoying, and therapy training just sharpened it into a deadly weapon."
Amanda wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater, shaking her head. "You're ridiculous."
Angela beamed. "And you’re surviving. Which is way harder."
Amanda didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.
Because in that small, fogged-up diner booth, for the first time in what felt like years, Amanda wasn’t holding the pieces together alone.
And maybe—just maybe—she didn’t have to anymore.