Love reading my fellow writer’s stuff. Great piece here!
The interviewer was already tired. His host’s ceiling fan spun too fast for its supports and seemed ready to detach from the screws. The dining room was large and connected to a larger kitchen with black marble countertops. He and the interviewee, a red-headed woman, sat on opposite sides of a barn wood dining table. The legs of the chair he sat in were loose from wear and creaked as he rocked. He tapped his foot and drummed his fingers on the table; he hated silence. Unable to endure the man’s restlessness anymore, the woman said, “All right, Mr. Price, I’m ready.”
“Good,” he said opening a spiral-bound Meade notebook. “You know why I’m here, so let’s get straight into it.” He paused to give the impression of collecting his thoughts. “Do you hate him for what he did?” It was a calculated question, one he thought would get a…
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