“Is that…a picture of Hannah?” Looking at the picture, framed and airbrushed—all too formal for its intended purpose, whatever it might have been—you felt uneasy.
“Yeah, man.” He replied in a-matter-of-fact way.
“That’s interesting…hmm, *hmmphh—–hahaha…..oh gosh, Bryan” there was something about the portrait, enclosed by a wooden frame, that struck you as hilariously bizarre.
“What, is it not okay for me to have a picture of my girlfriend?” He joked, impersonating the shrilling tone of a stereotypical prick; however, he was obviously annoyed.
Your girlfriend. I’d imagine she’s more than that.
You threw a more probing humor at him, “So, what’s this, some kinda trophy? Like a proud declaration saying, ‘Oh YES, I’ve got her. Yep, kept my eyes ON the PRIZE…Now she’s all MINE.’ Does that kinda-sorta represent the mentality behind this gesture?”
Whenever you decide to interrogate someone, to avoid being socially unacceptable, you always present your questioning in a nasty, comedic manner. In this case, you did your best to furnish your line with Le American Southern Twang (momentously lyrical and intoxicatingly addictive of an accent to listen to and practice with).
“Whatever. Look, this is what people do when they are in serious relationships.”
“Really? I thought that’s what people do when their daughters graduate from high school and leave the nest for a couple of years. You know, the glamour shot; close-up portrait and stuff like that; for glorified remembrance.”
“You are over thinking it, _______(place name here). It’s just a picture, like I have framed photos of my family.”
“Well hey, you do whatever. I just really hope you are not trying to make her into a sister of some sort. That’d be crazier than all of my previous suspicions” you chuckled.
Bryan looked at you, in an irritated disdain, “Fuck you, _______.”
Christ, what a compulsive liar. Bryan, you and your self-righteous justifications—you lying, cheating fucktard.